How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy
by The Blearing Phoenix
Summary: AU Crack fic. Rewind 12 years to a widowed Ignacio with two teen-aged daughters. Betty's just been accepted into an amazing academy. But can she survive amidst the snobs and *gasp* Daniel Meade? Or will something blossom between the two? ON HIATUS
1. Prelude: In Which the Unexpected Happens

**How to Survive Imacculate Academy: The Tales of a Misfit Teen**

Notes on _Ugly Betty _fanfiction

Takes place in present time (i.e. 2000s); in upper-East side of Manhattan NY.

Set in a fictional private school; decidedly unisex and operated/funded by powerful Roman Catholic church

Boys and girls attend school (really known as an academy); set up like a very posh boarding school (mostly because it _is _a really posh unisex religious private academy)

Did I mention that it's close to Central Park, like smack dab in the bustling heart of the upper-East side? I did? Good.

Betty gets into school due to having awesometastic connections ala Christina McKinney and Amanda Tannen. Don't ask. Or do, whatever. They know each other because Betty's dad used to know them once upon a time ago because her mother used to work with the McKinneys (more specifically Christina's mom who later met Tannen's mother, Fey Sommers while in college). Yeah loooooong story but the three moms remained close until Betty and Hilda's mother died from . . . something terrible. Yeah, I even changed what she died from! OH! Okay stopping now.

This is such a crazily constructed AU that it isn't even funny.

I'd like to thank my mom for having attended a posh religious all-Girls private school in her teens so she could later recount (in great accuracy) her experiences there, her parents for urging her to go and subsequently paying for it, and for _Ugly Betty _which melds pretty perfectly in my opinion with this monstrosity of a fabricated story

Boys sleep and typically chillax at their own dormitory in the West Wing (right-side for you "slow folks". J/k.) Girls typically relax and pamper themselves at their dormitory in the East Wing.

Girls and boys congregate for balls, holiday festivities likes Christmas feasts and for breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the Great Hall.

Boys can't be caught dead wandering into the East Wing, likewise for the girls. And no more will be said of that because it ruins the story---like about a good three-quarters of the way in. Muhahaha.

No, Hilda doesn't attend sadly, only Betty does because she actually _wants _to go. Hilda's actually smarter for not going to the academy, some rich kids can be b-r-u-t-a-l.

Oh you bet your $1.20 socks off that Marc St. James sneaks over to talk to Amanda and cause some crazy "gruesome twosome" mischief.

Yes, Amanda owns Halston and yes, that does mean that pets can be allowed on the grounds, so long as the pets' owners are held accountable for that pet in every way, shape, form, and/or word. They usually are reminded of this on a daily basis.

The principal is referred to as the headmaster. Hey, didn't I tell you that I was inspired by my mom's ultra posh religious high school? I mean, this was back when Jamaica was newly independent so could you blame them for still using that old English school system (not that they ever got rid of it; 'sides it kinda works).

Pfft, this is so not like Gossip Girl—I swear, no really, it isn't. No one gets any pregnancy—oh wait, I lied. Damn it!

Gio Rossi is Vincent Bianchi's cousin in this. OMGZ! I know it's so shocking! Okay, you can stop hyperventilating and debating on whether you should kill me with your newly discovered Vulcan Mind Meld powahs now. Seriously.

The Rossis and Bianchis jointly own one of the filthiest most disgustingly richest fashion empires in Italy, second only to freaking Versace and Dolce and Gabbana. Yeah repeat that, "eeeew really?" statement again, Amanda will love you for it.

Henry What's-His-Name? (Sorry Benry fans but I'm so gonna axe this nerdy hottie, I mean I gotta admit that Gorham is a looker, whew but on UB—being Henry, uh not so much. I mean TUCSON really? Freaking TUCSON!? With your pregnant psycho bitch stalker ex Charlie? Really?! And her not-yet-but-soon-to-be born kid? Really?) will be featured in here. Before you ask how he could get in, think of the word connections and that's all I'm sayin', Will there be Ocs in here? Oh yes, yes there will be. In fact ideas of Ocs are stewing in my head as we speak.

Biggest shitastic "Omf shit-take mushrooms-wtf did you do?! That's probably THE craziest twist ever or most brilliant twist ever, maybe a mixture of both"--thing concerning Alexis Meade will be revealed . . . ahem just not in these annotated notes. AAHA!

Yes, Daniel's still a filthy playboy like Papa Meade only worse because he's oblivious and suffering from a raging hard-on 24/7, courtesy of MOST of the female populace at the academy.

I'm debating on whether Tyler will make an appearance here. Matt will definitely be there as competition for everyone's favorite adorable wittle Daniel.

Erm Walter will NOT be in this fic like at all. 'Cause um hello? Did anyone like him? I mean, seriously?

Betty and everyone else will be like in their teenage years therefore meaning that sadly (ready your handkerchiefs and pitch forks folks), Justin will not be in this fic. Sowwy. But I did say primarily set in high school so that alone should make you rabid Justin-wuvvers hightail it. Just bein' frank, man, can't help it. Sowwy. ^^

Uh let's see Wili Slater will obvs be in here I just haven't decided how I'll implement her into the fic. Since this high-school based, I doubt she'll be playing the Queen Bitch role in here as prominently as she does in Horta's UB-verse. But don't worry darlings, I have cooked up a Queen Bitch so menacing that she'll make Wili seem as sweet as pie. Wili? Sweet as pie? Yeah I know, revolting and mortifying isn't? I know, I know. It's alright.

Queen B was partly influenced by girls-who-thou-shalt-not-inquire-about-from-my-area-of-residence, that badass brunette chick in Gossip Girls (solely for her impeccable fashion sense and boyfriend-stealing powers, way to go Leighton Meeser!), aaaaaaand my secret bitchy side. Le gasp, yes I have one and for that matter EVERY girl in this whole damn universe does too. C'mon admit it!

Chapters will be called 'episodes' because erm . . . it just popped into my head like as spur of the moment. And yes this so chronicles how our brave, brave Betty Suarez would fare in a private school chock full of uppity, biting, snobbish, pompous, ignorant rich kids. Sounds god damn scary don't it? Lol.

So getting all of the notable mentions out of the way . . . we can move on to the disclaimer and then hopefully the prologue to this grandly epic tale.

DISCLAIMER: The authoress of this story hereby exclaims that she doesn't own any of these wonderfully quirky and lovable host of characters, however if she did then Betty would have been shackled to Daniel Meade from like day one and neither of them would be THAT dense about their love for one another. Y'hear that Horta and co. they love each other, you better have taken the hint from those irate Detty fans (myself included) when you wrapped up the finale **sniffs.**

But yeah Horta and co. own every single last one of 'em. I just own my crazy-as-hell OC's. Enjoooooy.

* * *

_Prelude: In Which the Unexpected Happens Unexpectedly_

Elisabeth "Betty" Rosalind Suarez had always been a bright girl, it was something that Ignacio, her father never paused to gloat over secretly when neither of his daughters were present. True, he did adore both of his wonderful girls (Hilda was proving to be like the shadow of their now deceased mother, when it came to her appreciation for priding in one's appearance), but there was something indelibly charming about Betty's precociousness.

Even at four years old, the lovely girl had a way of brightening up everyone's faces for hours to come. There was always something to discover, something to find out the inner workings of: whether it was a music box or just the simple unfastening of a button on a coat lapel only to fasten it up again. Betty was a precocious kid: she had ALL of the questions, which either ended up in Ignacio blushing furiously or in her parents gushing at her about how amazingly bright she was. Hilda was lavished upon for her fashion sense and her no-nonsense attitude but Betty—ah for Betty it was always for her endless optimism and her love of knowledge.

That girl could sit on her windowsill and pore over neglected copies of books for hours and hours and-- well yeah, you get the idea. Now, Betty's optimism remained as bright as a star really for quite a while. She charmed the socks off of her father's neighbors, always being courteous whereas Hilda's crazy "hot Latina blood" as Ignacio deemed it could be set off like a firecracker at the drop of a hat. However the comfort of the Suarez home—of Rosalind, their mother's homecooking, of her humming, of her adoration for her girls, of her quiet evenings spent soothing them to bed with Spanish lullabies, of the smell of her simple fragrant perfume, of her shampoo smelling of lilac and just a _hint _of peach-blossom, all of that was gone in an instant. It was as if someone had whited her out of Ignacio, Hilda, and Betty's lives. Permanently. Kaput. She was gone. Never comin' back. Nope. Death had claimed her and that was it.

Betty remembered it clearly. If you'd asked her about it now, she would be able to recite the transpiring events of that day clearly in exact detail, down to the time she rolled out of bed and everything.

It had been a Saturday which for the Suarezes usually meant, trips to the supermarket for groceries, family outings at the park, and play dates with the neighbors' kids (that boy next door, Juan STILL hadn't apologized for stealing Betty's beloved teddy bear, Snuffles. Stupid boy. Probably infested it with cooties anyway) Ignacio was intent on rousing the girls up early so that they could all go to one of the many small clothing stores that lined the block to pick up their new church dresses but Hilda (late ass sleeper that she was) just wasn't going to get up.

"Oi, _mija _c'mon honey, early to rise, bright and early. Up, up, up! You gotta come with us to get your church dress remember," he gently shook his daughter, kneeling simultaneously at the side of her canopied bed. Hilda mumbled incoherently and weakly batted his hands away before covering herself with her pastel pink comforter.

Ignacio sighed while he heard Rosalind usher the sweet four year old Betty into the bathroom.

"Hilda, still giving you trouble?" Rosalind called out over the rush of water. Ignacio could only assume that Betty was brushing her teeth.

"_Si_, oh _mi dios_, why can't she just wake up and be a good girl on Saturday mornings? Matter of fact, why can't Hilda just get her butt up _every _morning, Rosalita?" Ignacio groaned.

"Now, now all you need to do is be patient. You know how Hilda needs her beauty sleep. Give her at least five more minutes tops. Besides, _mi amor _the stores don't open for another good 10 or 25 minutes. We have some time." Rosalind replied as she pulled Betty gently across the threshold only to have her sit on her lap as she herself sat on the edge of the bed. The sudden settled weight of their mother on Hilda's ooooh-so comfortable bed—mm velvet—wait, no that was cotton and polyester, oh who gave a crud—yeah that managed to wake her up.

"_Aye muchacha! _Felippe NO, you can't marry Carmela! She's your half-sist—ooh 'morning Papi, Mami, hehehe." Hilda laughed weakly and covered her embarrassment by mumbling about needing to straighten her hair before making a beeline for the bathroom. Ignacio shared a look with Rosalind who only smiled softly while continuing to plait her daughter's long luxurious dark hair. Betty was humming good-naturedly to herself all the while rambling on about well—nonsensical stuff really.

"So then Juan stuck his tongue out at me . . . but you see mami he HAD to be wrong because _I _read the book and he DIDN'T. He was just being a stupid poopy head."

"_Mija_, be a little more considerate than that, maybe Juan doesn't have that book at home," Ignacio broke in, earning a defiant stare from his younger daughter. Hilda returned just then, sporting a crazily concocted hairstyle, stiffened by gallons of canned hairspray. The sickening smell permeated into every fabric and pore in the room but nobody remarked about this at all. Fifteen minutes later everyone was rearing to go.

It was only after the Suarez clan had returned from their little shopping extravaganza that something felt quite unsettling. It was only after weeks later when Rosalind suddenly complained of not feeling hungry (which was downright odd because, she never ever ever could resist Ignacio's famous empanadas. Period.) and then lost a good 10 pounds in body weight seemingly overnight that Ignacio started to worry. Suddenly the young father of two felt even more inclined to be by his wife, constantly checking up on her as she put herself on bed rest, staying away from her job as a seamstress at a small sweat shop or as Hilda called it "Hell on earth incarnate, with harpies, excluding Mami of course for coworkers". Ignacio would herald his daughters into the kitchen to toil over pots of soup and piquant tacos or chile or whatever else he could quickly teach them to make.

"Ignacio don't worry, it'll be fine. _I'll _be fine. Our girls, I know that they'll be _muy excelente_. Stop being such a worrywart." She would tell him when he would come in almost at wit's end, furrowing his brow and biting his lip in worry. His dark eyes met her light brown ones as she squeezed his hand tightly and he could only think that he should be the one holding _her _hand, not the other way around. Then came the doctor appointments, then the worried barely resigned look of professional coolness, then the need for CAT scans and MRI's and blood tests, then came the results. Then, then, oh God then there were the results with those terrible words taunting him in fresh ink, just printed, smelling warm like it had _just _been calculated, typed, and printed out that morning.

There was his soundless barely contained scream, his hand reaching out to grip the railing for the staircase that led up to his apartment, the need to be supported by a stronger force. His silent prayers that "_gracias a Dios, gracias a Dios, muy gracias a Dios that the girls are away at school!_" were feverishly recited under his shaky breath and then there was her being suddenly admitted to the hospital, wheeled away on a stretcher, having her vital signs checked by frantic paramedics only hours later. Then there were the arduous, tedious waits at the hospital. His girls took to clamping unto his hands for all their little lives were worth. Her eyes took to growing glassier with each passing day, her body became frailer and paler, and her voice started pining away in breathy whispers.

"_Mi pequena ama, _come here for a . . . a m-moment," Rosalind called to a tearful Hilda and Betty one day. Betty clutched her older sister's hand like a death grip. She couldn't lose her mother—_their mother _to cancer. There was no way she was leaving them forever and ever and ever to pick up their pieces. NO! Betty wouldn't have it; rushing over to her mom before Ignacio could shoot out a word edgewise, she grasped her mom's slender hand in her tiny one. She remembered the strength in those slim elegant fingers—piano fingers, their papi had called them, but they were strong, calloused from too much piano-playing and sewing, too much crocheting and dumpling making.

"Mami, it'll be fine right? You'll get the bad sickness out of you, right?" Betty's voice finally broke and her mom stroked her face lovingly, a bright sheen of tears wetting her own face as her daughter let out a discouraged sob which quickly turned into a childish wail. It was so damn heartbreaking for Ignacio, he squeezed Hilda's shoulder and looked his tender wife in the eyes . . . so beautiful and she was dying . . . the cancer—it had always been there, lingering, waiting, until the tumor just grew—it had started months ago, right after Hilda's seventh birthday. The doctors had only given her a small window of time to live, two weeks—three if she was damn near lucky to toughen it out. It was the Wednesday of her second week. There had been a rush to get her scheduled for chemotherapy and radiation but the cancer was quickly spreading and death, the doctor had said was sadly---a very morose and likely possibility. If the treatments didn't kick in soon . . .

"Elisabeth, Hilda, my angels . . . m-mommy's very sick and," Rosalind made a conscious effort, chest heaving and her breath shuttering like a sickly fluttering thing, as she swallowed hard and thick, before pressing on, " . . . and mommy needs you to keep being strong g-girls. Hilda," she let her brown eyes, so like Betty's, so warm and full of unconditional passion stare right into Hilda's whose stare was strong, full of conviction, and unbridled passion like her father's.

"Yes mama," Hilda, the crazy spitfire, was unusually quieted now by the harsh metaphorical slap on the wrist that was their mother's impending last few minutes. Her whole world was crashing down on her—her mom's lulling sweet voice, her knitted softly hued caps and dresses, her smooth caramel skin, her warm hugs---Hilda's whole world were composed of all of those things and now they were slipping away . . . on a beautiful sunny Wednesday morning. Why? Just why?

"Take care of your sister and your father; you're so headstrong and fierce in spirit like your Papi," Ignacio let out a snort and a muttered, ". . . like I need to be cared for" in a slight humor-filled tone, despite the morbidity of the situation. Rosalind laughed, dryly coughing as she eyed her husband, ". . . oh, you'll need them, _mi amor_, you'll need them. You're . . . the best father and husband I could ask for . . . the best man . . . the st-strongest man I could . . . ask for. Proud to call you my husband, Ignacio."

He had to wonder if she had caught him visibly trying to wipe away his tears with tremulous hands.

"Betty . . . my _pajarito _keep being their sunshine and know this, _pajarito_ . . .," Rosalind weakly beckoned Betty to come closer, snuggling the little girl into her chest, nestling her soft dark hair with thin fingers as her reedy voice wheezed out in small puffs, ". . . you can do . . . anything in this whole world. You'll go far; so far . . . you'll fly, I want you to fly and h-hold onto your dreams. Don't let anyone kill your dreams, ever . . . okay?"

Betty nodded tearfully, not quite grasping the seriousness of the message at her tender age but feeling touched all the same emotionally. And then with one last laboring breath and one last squeeze of that now ice-cold hand, Rosalind was gone and her heart monitor flat-lined. Ignacio scooped up his bereaved daughters into his arms and held them possessively to his chest, burrowing their heads into his warmth as they openly wept by their dead mother's bed.

12 years later . . .

'She would be 54 today, oh Mami . . .,' Betty mused silently to herself as she snapped her worn copy of _Pride and Prejudice _shut softly and laid it on her side table by her bed. There was only one good thing that had manifested out of the anniversary of her mother's death—one singular event that could mark the new beginning of Betty's academic life—and that was her pending invitation to one of the most prestigious private academies in the nation: Immaculate Conceptional Academy for Boys and Girls in upstate East New York. It was the snobbiest, most elite, most terrifyingly prolific, renown school _in _New York. Every "it" girl and "it" boy practically begged their parents relentlessly in their snobby nasal voices (or at least Betty assumed that they'd all sound nasal, like on those TV soap operas)just to attend school there.

All Betty knew from her deceased mom's longtime friend's daughter, Christina (Christina's mom used to attend Brooklyn college with Betty and Hilda's mother before marrying one of Ireland's famed and upcoming fashion designers and proclaiming herself a charitable socialite) was that it cost a "bajillion dollars, more than Oprah and Bill Gates' salaries combined, love" to maintain it and that the richest of the rich could get in, either that or pray that you were no common fool. The academy only took the most well bred, cultured, intelligent, and aspiring pupil under their wing. Unless the headmaster was good friends AND related (distantly and twice removed, but who the hell in Christina's family was counting?) to your best friend's dad, then you might as well forget about dreaming about attending it unless you were really, really filthily disgustingly rich.

Betty knew that she had a snowball's chance of getting in. Although she practically begged her dad to submit in the formal application form.

"I don't know _mija _it's so expensive, ever since your . . .mother's been gone, it's been tough to manage the apartment's upkeep, you know that. We can't possibly afford it with the way things are now," Betty's face had fell until Hilda suggested the most brilliant idea ever, her ruminations were usually concerned with the latest issue of Cosmo, that Gina Gambino chick who seemed to "steal EVERY guy that waltzed into NYC fresh off of a boat or plane", and of course the newest hot guy in question who just so happened to waltz into NYC fresh off of a boat or plane.

"Why don't you just talk to Christina's parents? They're practically like family dad and you _know _that Uncle McKinney will do anything now. He—he really helped when mom left." Hilda suggested, fighting the impending flow of hot tears at the mention of their mother. It had been years but still the hurt was as fresh as if it had happened just weeks ago. Rosalind was not a character that could be easily forgotten and filed away. Her family would be damned if they so much as forgot the smell of her hair or the sound of her voice.

"Yeah that's perfect, Hilda!" Betty beamed, practically crushing Hilda's bones together in a fierce hug.

"Aye, aye, aye alright I love you too now please stop trying to literally hug me to death! I'd love to live to see my 20s."

"Oh right sorry," Betty smiled sheepishly.

Ignacio meanwhile had pondered over it briefly before deciding that it wouldn't hurt to give his old pal, McKinney Sr. a call. The man although, very wealthy and borne of an affluent family, still behaved as if he'd come from humble upbringings like Ignacio. He was very frugal about his spending and only gave his daughter the necessities but for friends like Ignacio, who he'd bumped into by chance while strolling through the streets of NY as a young spirited twenty-something, he would do anything for that man and his lovely family.

"Alright well girls, I'll give him a call. We'll take this one step at a time, _mija_."

"Thank you dad, Hilda, I love you guys." Betty hugged them both, overwhelmed by the developments. To think, she'd soon be attending one of the best schools in the country, how many girls from Queens got to gloat about _that _on their resumes? Soon, she'd be THAT much closer to getting her degree in English and moving off into the hectic demanding world of publishing empires. Soon, oh so soon, Betty inwardly scream in happiness and performed cartwheels clumsily in her head. She was going to need a crazy caffeine crash in order to sleep tonight, that was for sure.

One month later . . .

"Betty, Betty, Betty! Oh my God, come here!" Hilda practically screamed until the whole of Finland could hear her. Betty groggily got up, stretching and yawning like a sleepy kitten, before regarding her sister with blearing bloodshot eyes. The poor girl had been up all night mulling over how she'd process the news of either being accepted or rejected into the academy. Betty had purchased a tub of Ben & Jerry's Cookie Dough ice cream and a box of Kleenex tissues for an unceremonious cry fest in case she got the worst news ever, and prepared her lungs for a scream-a-athon against Hilda if she got good news. Judging from her sister's deafening excited squeals, Betty could only assume that—that – but no . . . no way McKinney's dad could pull strings to get her in, even if she DID have ties, it wasn't as if they had the money to get in.

The academy's board or panel of judges really, selected their school's attendants based on their parents' combined incomes, the kids' intelligence, and their police records (hopefully their attendant-to-be didn't have a record at ALL yet, but there were those few . . .); the intelligence quotient of the student was measure by their responses to a subjective long questionnaire and their open-ended-anything-goes-styled 500-word essay requirement. Betty had chosen to write about how her mother's death impacted her as a person and how it also had allowed her aspirations to become the best editor ever finally seem that much more reachable. She only prayed that those late nights slaving and usually drooling out of exhaustion all over her poor keyboard was worth it.

"Huh?" Betty sleepily mumbled, only now blinking the last remnants of tiredness away.

Hilda produced a manila envelope with embossed gold-leafed lettering curling around the front in elegant Edwardian script. On it was imprinted, "_Congratulations Recipient and New Attendee to Immaculate Conceptional Academy of Boys and Girls_". Betty let out a long whooshing breath she hadn't even known she had been holding until her chest ached from lack of breathing. Her father proudly stood behind her, smoothing her hair and smiling over at Hilda, belatedly.

"Well go on open it, hon," he urged her, wiping his hands on his apron. The faint smell of baking cookies wafted in from the kitchen as Betty tentatively took the envelope in her sweaty palms ('God I hope I don't soil it, even the paper for the freaking envelope looks expensive. I bet they imported that from somewhere crazy too—like Britain or India or something'). She carefully ripped it open and pulled out a single thick oak-tag paper, faintly smelling of fresh sawed oak wood, the back was glimmering in gold leaf.

"Papi, do y-you want to read it? Suddenly I'm feeling more nervous than that rabbit at the beginning of _Alice in Wonderland_." Betty confessed earning a chuckle from their father and an amused roll of the eyes from Hilda. Ignacio took the paper gently from the girl's outstretched hand and slowly began to read the words aloud, his eyes shimmering in tears of complete happiness, as he let the news soak in, 'My baby's going to _the _most prestigious academy in America, one of the finest schools in this nation . . . God McKinney thank you so, so, so much. And Rosa you were right darling, you'd be proud of her.'

That was the only thought that dominated his mind as he read:

_'To the parent(s) of Elisabeth Rosalind Suarez,_

_We are greatly overjoyed to inform you of your daughter's acceptance into the grand academy of Immaculate Conceptional. Your daughter's status as an attendee is effective immediately at oh-six hours tomorrow morning on September the Second, Two-Thousand and Six. Your daughter's tuition fee for all four years have been covered, her living expenses have also been covered, as have her expenses for her schooling supplies (please note that this is not limited to: textbooks, pencils, pens, notebooks, and folders). As is customary of the full package agreement, your daughter will have access to the famous East Wing Quarters exclusively accessed by the female pupils of this prestigious academic facility. All meals will be served in the Great Hall where the female and male pupils will congregate to socialize and feast on the finest meats, sweets, and wines imaginable._

_Please note that we only wish to provide your daughter with the most intellectually charged atmosphere possible, where she will grow into a finer, more cultured, able-bodied woman, ready to face her fears and tackle the world at will. We hope that your daughter enjoys her stay at our institution that has been providing academic service of the highest standards to young girls and boys since 1855. Enclosed is a prearranged dormitory arrangement of your daughter's room mate and a list of items that are recommended to be brought upon stepping unto the school grounds; likewise there are a list of items that upon immediate sight on school grounds, will be deemed as improper and dangerous and therefore shall be confiscated promptly._

_There is also an attached schedule that your daughter must keep on her at all times, it provides a list of her courses, which upon completing her first two years of schooling will be completely modifiable for her. She is to, at this point in time follow it and use it as a guide. There is also a handbook with a section on proper rules of conduct, we urge you and your daughter to read this over with great care. We hope you have a wonderful week and once more, can not stress how excited we are to accept your daughter into our academic family. We shall do our utmost best to accommodate her and make her feel at home._

_Sincerely,_

_Headmaster Lucius Chancellor, Professor Emeritus of Latin Studies, PhD_

_Lucius Chancellor_'

And that was the beginning of Betty's academic career, she was at the pinnacle now, flying high on an untouchable cloud. Little did she know just how hard it would be to stay right at the top . . .

A/N: And that's all folks. It's my first foray into the Ugly Betty community so try to take it just a little easy on me. This will be Detty fic, yes, yes. I'm a 150% Detty supporter here all the way, as you can see this is a crack AU at its finest soooo . . . yeah. ^^ Blame my overactive imagination on any plot twists that you might see in the future. Hope you enjoyed the beginning because it'll only get weirder and more entertaining from here on out.

TBP -


	2. Episode One

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy: The Tales of a Misfit Teen**

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the awesometastic cast of UB, they sadly belong to Horta and the rest of his gang. However those crazy Ocs featured in this story are all mine.

A /N: I want to thank my lovely reviewers for their awesome feedback and because I was so touched by this particular reviewer's suggestions, I feel like calling her out: Thank you LunaSolTierra for those lovely point-outs. I'm going to clear up some nasty little left-overs about wine serving in the school ('cause we can't have tipsy First Years trudging up the stairs and passing out), the way acceptance costs are handled, and how Betty really got accepted. Did I mention that this chapter actually takes _place _before the prelude and then segues into the present time? I didn't—right, well it does so I just want to clear that out of the air before I get some confused reviewers.

So without further ado . . . let's get this party started!

Episode One: In Which Betty Gets A Uniform and the Meades Try NOT to Kill Each Other (Oh Joy . . .)

Betty was a light sleeper, the smallest sounds could wake her up so the fact that her sister and Christina were hollering _right _into her precious eardrums, had her bolting up in fright and irritation. Clutching her sheets to her body (that night gown she was wearing didn't cover her arms at all, it was spaghetti-strapped), Betty glared at the intruders currently seated at the foot of her bed.

"'Mornin' to you too Betty, love! Ya know my dad agreed to take us on an exclusive shoppin' spree for our uniforms today." Christina informed her, beaming at her happily.

"Oh right, I completely forgot about that." Betty groaned. She hadn't set her alarm clock so it had been up to Hilda and a newly arrived Christina to rouse her from the bed. Thankfully it was Betty needing to get uniforms and not Hilda, the elder sister could sleep through a hurricane if she wanted to.

"Alright, well hurry up. Papi's downstairs and I think he's like negotiating or something with Uncle McKinney. We don't have all day you know." Hilda reminded Betty which earned the elder Suarez sister a playful smack on the arm and a defiant glare. Christina chuckled, pushed a still weary 5'1" Latina girl into her small bathroom across the hall, and leaned against the door in mock exhaustion.

The sound of gushing water filled their ears moments later.

"So . . . I bet you're totally excited. I mean, Betty's got in on a full scholarship and she's goin' off to the same school with me." Hilda could see right through the Scottish native's friendly tones. That statement was code for, 'Don't you sort of wish that you could go with her too?' and Hilda had the perfect response for it because it wasn't as if she'd tossed and turned at night, feeling spurts of jealousy due to her having to attend a public school.

"What? Me Christina?" Hilda chuckled, moving into her own bedroom, waiting for their blond-haired friend to follow before she closed the door, to shut the sounds out. Betty was backtracking to her room now; Hilda could hear the footfalls.

"Yeah, I mean I just assumed that—ah, Hilda me mind's a mess," Christina started.

"No, no, no, it's fine. It's okay that you asked. I mean I'm proud of my sister but that whole private school thing, ha, that's not my kinda style. 'Sides, no offense, but some of the kids there are . . . stuck up pissy little brats."

Hilda quickly added for good measure, "Not you though, you're an angel."

"Oooh none taken dearie, a lot of them ARE intolerable. Now shall we check up on your wee sister?"

"Yup, let's just make sure that she doesn't get into a fight with the hairdryer and that the hairdryer doesn't win," they both chortled at that before walking off to Betty's bedroom.

Meanwhile, downstairs . . .

Ignacio had invited Mr. McKinney over to discuss the financial terms of his daughter's schooling supplies and uniform. He figured that since the stout man seated across from him had a greater wealth of knowledge about the operations of the school, then he would be the ideal man to come to. It pained him to admit it readily in front of his daughters since it would break Betty's little heart, but he wouldn't be able to cover ALL of the school's costs. It was a $45,000 tuition fee which the scholarship Betty had received months ago had thankfully covered fully. The books however which were a whopping $150 and the school uniform which was another crazy payment of $250 (including the $45 skirts and the duplicates of white ruffled shirts AND the ties), was something that would financially cripple him.

". . . and so, that's why . . . I'm asking you for your help, Arthur." Ignacio sighed, running a hand over his slightly weathered face.

Arthur McKinney coughed dryly into his white handkerchief before laughing like a jolly balding version of St. Nick. His thick Scottish brogue cut the tension hanging in the air with an invisible knife. That man could put anyone at ease with a smile that crinkled his bright eyes and a heartwarming display of generosity.

"Oh for Saint Michael's sake, this is why we're friends; don't get your boxers in a twist, eh!" McKinney slapped Ignacio a little too hard on the shoulder, causing his glass of water to slosh a bit out of it. Ignacio recovered and nursed his drink, taking a sip from it. He let the strong liquor burn in the back of his throat. Man, that felt great.

"Arthur if there's anything I can do . . .," he was so grateful for this man's help. He owed so much to him, for he had been the one to call Ignacio up whenever he would slink back into those disparaging moods, and feel as if he truly couldn't play the role of "mommy" and "daddy dearest" to his kids. Now Arthur McKinney the III was telling him that he would cover the costs for Betty's uniforms and her other school accessories? That was reason enough for Ignacio to reach over and refill both of their glasses with a generous amount of water.

McKinney raised an eyebrow and smiled, Ignacio's unwavering loyalty and his strong spirit were payment enough for his ability to dole out cash to anyone in need. How could Arthur possibly convey that to his dearest friend?

"Me friend, let me cut this short because we've got to take our girls shoppin' in a few and I don't want the driver pissin' his pants waitin' out there for me." Ignacio chuckled at this before sipping his drink gingerly.

". . . you're my friend and I promised you years ago that if you ever needed any sort a' help, that you could come to me. Now I'm good friends with the headmaster and I've told him abo'ot you and 'yer situation. He agreed that I could help you cover the costs for the rest a' Betty's schoolin' accessories. So please, don't feel as if you're indebted to me or some crud because you aren't. Your loyalty and your amazin' cookin' is payment enough for me, mate." Arthur finished before standing up and smoothing his black knee-length coat over his wide body. Ignacio practically looked like a little puppy next to Christina's father. The man was pure brawny muscle and his height alone was enough to intimidate a full grown man half his size, at 6'5" he was a force to be reckoned with. Yet at that moment Arthur was being as softhearted as anything, waiting by the banister and calling up to Betty to "please come down now."

Moments later Hilda, Christina, and a fully alert Betty clambered down the stairs excitedly. If Ignacio sucked in his breath any more than he already was, then he'd probably collapse from asphyxiation right then and there. Betty's hair had been swept over her shoulders and straightened, one side of it pulled back by a butterfly pin, and there was a light dusting of blush on her cheeks. Other than that she was still the same old Betty, garbed in a bright orange short sleeved T-shirt with a cartoon mushroom on the front and a long orange, green, and yellow striped skirt brushing against her calves.

"_Mija_, your hair—it looks wonderful." Ignacio finally managed to breathe out. Betty pulled him into a warm hug before letting go and rushing over to embrace Mr. McKinney who suppressed the urge to ruffle his surrogate niece's hair.

"Alrigh, I'm thinkin' that we should get to Buffalo by 10 guys. If you'll just follow me to the limo . . .," Mr. McKinney pulled away from Betty who went over to link arms with her giddy older sister and her even giddier friend, Christina. The five people grabbed their jackets and walked out to the waiting limo.

Elsewhere . . . 

Daniel Meade, aspiring playboy, younger brother of Alex Meade, and "that ungrateful good-for-nothing of a son" to Bradford Meade, was currently in bed with some nameless blond girl he'd picked up a few days ago. The 16 year old teen in question was currently snoring away in his four poster cherry wood bed, donning only a pair of comfortable black sweatpants, with his arms dangling at his sides, ever so precariously off the edge of the bed.

It was only when one of the numerous maids walked in, meaning to change the sheets, and discovered the younger Meade brother sleeping in with some slut of an anorexic (poor thing really needed a good sandwich with some Gouda cheese or something) blond girl that she shrieked out to the heavens.

"Gah! Oh crap, Wendy er, I mean Lorelei or damn it whatever your name is!" Daniel sputtered, trying desperately to cover himself up, wrapping the heavy velvety comforter around his lean frame. His current "Sunday conquest" as his brother would so _lovingly _call her, was still curled up into a bony little ball, heavily snoring and snorting away with a bit of drool issuing out of her mouth. Daniel wondered if Alex hadn't sneaked in the middle of the night to record that on his high-tech camcorder yet.

"It's Helga sir and you," Helga (he totally forgot that she was from Norway sometimes), the young nondescript brunette girl wrinkled her button nose at the littered used condoms near her feet, ". . . forgot to clean up your mess."

Daniel glanced down and smiled sheepishly at her, muttering an apology in a voice heavy with sleepiness, as he grabbed the nearest silver metallic trash bin from his bathroom and dumped the remainder of the condoms in there. He'd never known that he could spread so much darn se--

"Oh Danny-bear!" Damn it, and here he was hoping he could somehow stealthily maneuver his way downstairs to make a quick getaway from the skinny fair-haired girl currently sitting up in his bed. He really needed to start tipping his maids or something to keep them quiet about this whole weekly boinking business; his father already thought lowly enough of him as it was, he didn't need him having reasons to back those claims up.

"Yes, what is it? Are you hungry?" What the—Daniel could've smacked himself as soon as those words left his mouth. It was great that he had the ability to turn almost anything into a sex-charged innuendo, just NOT when it was 7:50 am in the morning, and he was recovering from his fifth round of it. The boy needed carbs, fat, and oh yeah more carbs, not another calorie-burning screwing session. Helga took this as her cue to leave after giving the girl a nasty look that could only be translated as a, "get your bony little butt off of this bed so I can do my damn job, ho."

Thankfully the girl took the hint, using that opportunity to sidle up to Daniel. God needed to strike him down now, she was wearing way too much of that J. Lo perfume he detested so much, all he knew was that it was really girlish and super strong. He could sniff her out like a bloodhound from a mile away and that was one of his definite turn offs.

"Oh I'm absolutely starving," the girl purred trying to nip at his ear playfully before he ducked under her tiny arm and backed away from her. The nameless boinking conquest tapped her foot irately and pouted at him sourly. It was a shame she was only freaking ribcage and bones because she'd look really cute with just a bit more meat on her. Daniel couldn't help it if he didn't have a thing for girls that could only squeeze into pants that were a size 0 (and yeah, he couldn't believe that the size existed either).

"Oh so what, you're too good to screw me again? I'm not _fun _enough for you?" What the heck was this girl's problem? Daniel bedded her five times, cinq times, freaking uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinqo times! What more did she want from him, what did he look like he belonged to a special pampering service now? Geez.

"Uh no, that's not it, it's just that if you don't leave in five minutes, my dad's going to mount my ass on a plaque and place it above the mantel of his fireplace," Daniel spat out in a gruff warning tone. The girl huffed indignantly and then moved past him, being ushered out by the grateful maid.

Unfortunately after Daniel was done grooming himself, and had effectively killed off every bacteria known to man with his copious amounts of hair gel; he had failed to notice Alex leaning against the door frame.

"I see you're trying to catch up to me. I already bedded two girls last night," Daniel was too busy trying to shave with an unnecessary amount of force. Needless to say it earned him a few nasty nicks in the process. Suppressing a hiss of pain, he glowered at his golden-blond haired brother in the mirror.

"One of these days, you're going to catch something real nasty from those girls. Are you so desperate that you have to move onto drug addicts now? Like seriously, that girl looked like she'd just left rehab for the fifth time. She needed a freaking sandwich I actually felt--"

"Save it." Daniel interrupted him tersely. He really _wasn_'t in the mood to hear Alex's flagrant trash talk, he was trying to have a peaceful and possibly boring morning for once. Unlike Alex, he could actually afford to take a break from vigorously screwing chicks all day.

"Aww, is poor wittle Daniel offended?" Alex effectively ducked as Daniel chucked a bottle of toothpaste at his head. He missed horribly and barely blinked as a young girl with softly curled auburn hair moved to catch it in her deft little hands. Marcelle Van Buren was the daughter of William Van Buren and the younger sister of Giselle Van Buren. Giselle was the heir-apparent to STOMP! Publications and therefore she would succeed in presiding over the publication of En Vogue Magazine.

"You know, I'm aware that you're trying to kill me but you could at least learn to brush up on your _horrendous _aiming skills, Meade." The young girl in question sauntered over to Alex and crushed her lips to his in a showy display of possessiveness. Daniel took the time to swallow down his bile and count to ten. Counting was good, counting kept him from cracking his knuckles and pummeling his brother and his latest squeeze into a mushy pulp—or maybe it was just his brother.

"Alex could you please take Marcelle out of here? It hardly seems fair that I have to constantly shoo away my lovely girls while you get to keep that—that whorish thing over there all to yourself."

Marcelle smirked in a conniving way, raising her eyebrows in a questioning manner at Alex who just shrugged noncommittally.

"Well that's because the girls I bed are actually marriage material, ooh, burn! Anyway you owe me $100 because I totally saved your lame ass back there. Dad would've roasted you if he didn't believe that Ms Bones-A-Lot wasn't supposedly your algebra studying partner. Man oh man." With that Alex kissed the top of Marcelle's head and the two impossibly pretty people sauntered off to probably snog somewhere or something; not like Daniel gave a crap.

Grumbling irately to himself, Daniel fished a crinkled $100 dollar note out of his messenger bag and pressed it into Alex's hand after catching up to the pair.

"That's more like it," Alex ruffled his brother's hair, chuckling as the younger of the two growled to himself. One of these days, Daniel swore that he would best his brother. He swore it. He absolutely hated Marcelle, what with her pouting lips always glossed and her babyish face, and her impossibly large beautiful eyes. Freaking beautiful smile. God damn it. He needed a strong glass of Bourbon, yeah that would set his bowels right, because right now they were churning and stewing like soup or something. In short, he wasn't feeling too hot.

"Dearest," his mother, Claire swept in, her blond hair perfectly coiffed, and her eyes watching him in concern. He hadn't heard her come in, but then again his mother had this way of walking where it almost seemed like she was floating across the threshold. Anyway, there she was now watching him with her eyes almost as if she were reading his very soul or something. Daniel scoffed derisively which earned him the Claire-patented "look", the one where she held her head up high as if to say, "I'm far too proud to smack the crap out of you and I don't want to chip a nail, but if I didn't care about that I so would right now." He hated that look, absolutely despised it. The only way she'd give him that look was if . . .

"You saw that girl rush out of here a couple of minutes ago, didn't you," and it came out more like a statement then a question because Claire just made a small 'hmm' sound and crossed her arms over her chest, pursing her lips at him in a barely concealed rage.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just kick you out onto the curb and be done with you? You have one good chance to not fuck up, excuse my French, and you do it anyway."

And because Daniel could be truly daft or just oblivious, as his mother would say when she wasn't blindly angry he uttered, "Do what?" in a foolish sort of way. Claire sighed and started walking downstairs causing Daniel to fall into step beside her. He honestly didn't know what the hell was wrong with him, he always seemed to attract trouble, or really he would always end up saying the _wrong _thing, or doing the _wrong _thing. His mother would tell him to not sleep with some girl and he would end up doing it one way or another, his father would tell him to not "get piss poor drunk so that we have to hold you over the toilet to puke your crud out" and he would get piss poor drunk anyway AND for good measure he'd probably be high while doing it.

He just wasn't good at following directions.

"You just _NEVER _can hold back, it-it's like you have no self control, Daniel! None at all, I just—God I don't want to say that Bradford was right but maybe he was." Claire pinched the bridge of her nose and moved over to one of the bars (there were three different bars because the Meades weren't social drinkers, though they led the outsiders to believe that, they were more like habitual as-soon-as-we-wake-up drinkers). Pouring herself a glass of Scotch, she downed it in one gulp and dropped unceremoniously unto one of the chaises; another clear sign that she was at her breaking point—with _him_, Daniel Ashton Meade, the son she used to sing to sleep and wash in the bathtub when he was just 3 years old and oh so innocent.

And yet her words seriously stung and left a stigma right on his heart. There was no way she could bandage that up, fuck, she'd already ripped off the band-aid off of his wound. She was right, obviously, he really didn't seem to care about what he did and how it affected people. The worst part was that he would just screw up all over again right after they had this repetitive talk (it wasn't the first time, Bradford or her or even some random socialite came in to talk to him).

"Man, I just, god I'm sorry Mom I really don't know what to say—I mean ugh, why can't you just have this conversation with Alex?! Alex sleeps with pretty much twice the amount of girls I do, I mean he's like a walking manwho--" He didn't really feel the _sting_, the actual burning white-hot pain of the slap until after it registered in his brain like five minutes later that his mother smacked him. She had never laid a hand on him until then. He watched her, his mouth agape, and it took him a good ten minutes to rework his jaw again, and even then he couldn't say much. Alex walked in, smoothing the soft golden curls that framed his angular face (he had such high well sculpted cheekbones), and he deliberately ignored them as he kissed Marcelle goodbye. It was a chaste sweep of the lips over her cheek and she was watching Daniel with this_ come-hither look_ in her chocolate brown eyes.

It was disgusting and humiliating to think that not only had she seen Claire smack him but she was still challenging him with that freaking gaze. He didn't fucking want her! Thankfully Marcelle was somewhat polite enough and sensible enough to keep her mouth shut while she walked out of the mansion.

"We're making you attend Immaculate Conceptional alongside Alex. I'm _sick _of having to deal with your excessive drug use, your drinking, and your blatant disregard for everyone and everything around you. I didn't raise you to screw up." Claire spat out, her eyes turning cold.

"Christ, that's not even—I mean a bunch of tight-wads go there!"

"Daniel Ashton Wesley Meade, so help me GOD if you don't shut up then I'll just send you off to your father."

"Good, because I'd much rather hear all of this from him, at least I'd be used to hearing those words come out of his mouth—you know, that I'm being such a screw-up." Daniel excused himself silently, brushing past a shocked Alex who for once didn't have anything to say like the smart ass he was. Sighing irately, Daniel tried to calm himself as soon as he entered the dining hall and he realized that Bradford Meade, his father was seated right at the dining table eating a carefully prepared meal. It was probably Belgian waffles or crepes, it smelled more like crepes though, whatever.

"Daniel . . .," his father didn't look up from his plate, focusing all of his attention on his crepes (Daniel could definitely tell from the smell) as if they were the most interesting things on the planet. Suddenly all of Daniel's earlier bravado abandoned him, his hands quivered, and his throat was dryer than usual. He was aching for a glass of liquor to calm his jittery nerves, feeling his face flush, he dropped ungracefully into the chair across from his father. A long expanse of wood distanced them a good thirteen feet or more across now and it didn't make him feel any better knowing that.

"Dad, look I—I know I screwed up . . ."

"Oh, you did more than screw up, you ruined your chances of me seeing anything even remotely positive in you. That's the what—fifth girl you've slept with now?"

"I-I wasn't thinking clearly, I mean I know I've really let the crap hit the gutter this time around," Bradford raised a silvery eyebrow at that. He would usually try to reprimand him for using such crass language. While Claire's tongue was looser, Bradford wasn't lenient with the boys at all; if he didn't like something then he would usually say it. Then again, Bradford was beyond disappointed in Daniel, it'd only make sense that he would be too angry to even scold him on that.

"Daniel, you know, hm, I'm sure your mother's informed you . . . we've already submitted the acceptance form for Immaculate Conceptional about two weeks ago. We've secured the payment and I've pulled a lot of strings in order to ensure that the headmaster accepted you." Daniel considered asking his father just _how _he managed to get him in on a whim but thought better of it when Bradford's indifferent tone sounded throughout the room.

". . . I think that you need to be in an environment where you don't really have a choice of 'yes' or 'no'. Think of this as a challenge," Daniel hated challenges, or more like he hated being challenged by his father because that usually only resulted in him being humiliated ". . . if you can prove to me that you can have a whole 360 degree turn around by attending this school and putting your mind to your work, then you can have my trust back—possibly."

"But . . ."

"And that's _final _Daniel! Now if you'll excuse me," the scraping of a dining room chair never sounded so intimidating or so dreadful to his younger son's ears until then, "I have a meeting to attend to. I'll be in Canada for two weeks, meeting with some clients. If you need to talk then please do it with your mother. I have nothing more to say to you."

Bradford's footfalls started to sound further and further away and Daniel sunk down into his chair morosely. He was going to have to attend a school with people snobbier than him, with teachers more strict than his parents, where he would have to actually read and write and _work_. He would have to do this, his father had said, to earn his trust back. No sleeping around, no drugs, no nothing, and yes his father didn't trust him. His father trusted Alex, Alex who had slept with Marcelle _and _five other girls, Alex who had done just as much drugs as him and then some. That Alex, supposed 'good, angelic, sweet, fucking perfect' Alex. Fifteen minutes later, Daniel was in Alex's room, startling the handsome curly-haired bastard, by hurling anything and everything he could think of at his smug golden haired head: vases, china, potted plants (hell if he could lift it . . . then why not?), pillows, books, just anything.

"I hate you, you're the freaking reason my ass is being sent to the equivalent of a boarding school! I mean what the fuck, mom doesn't even believe me when I tell her that you're just as fucked up as I am! How the fuck am I supposed to look up to someone who drinks, smokes, sniffs any fucking crystallized shit they can find, and beds the nearest thing with a pair of knockers and a crotch?! What the fuck!"

"Daniel, please just try to—whoa! Calm down!" Alex barely had time to move out of the way as Daniel's fists came flying at him, the force of his rage-fueled punch sending him straight to the parquet flooring. Alex meet floor, floor say hello to Alex, Daniel never felt better. Alex tackled him back, fighting to keep his younger sibling's wrists pinned and then Claire was rushing in moments later, all shrieks and a blur of beige and black. Bradford was shouting at the top of his lungs before he pried Alex off of his bloody brother because he'd spent a good ten minutes pummeling Daniel back blindly.

"Fucking hate you!" Daniel cried, wiping the streaming rivulets of blood from his nose before it splattered unto his crisp white button up shirt.

"You! What is your god damn _problem _Daniel?!" Bradford roared, holding Daniel up by the collar of his shirt, and looking him dead in the eye with a cold penetrating gaze.

"You, both of you, you think your eldest son is a fucking angel? Well wake up, he's not! Christ, I mean if you can't tell that he does _everything_ that I do, that he practically begged me and coerced me to turn out like him—all f'ed up and sex-addicted, then you're both blind and fucking senile!"

Bradford's jaw flexed and he shook Daniel once before letting him go. His hands were curling and uncurling as a score of bodyguards rushed up their spiral staircase, filing all crazily into the room.

"Is there a problem here, sir?" one of the guards asked and it took a hell of a lot of willpower for Daniel to not sock Alex in the face, effectively wiping off his arrogant expression at that moment. Claire remained controlled like a good Meade and placed a hand on Bradford's shoulder, calming him down.

"No, we're all fine here," the eldest Meade's tone was clipped and forced but the bodyguards just shrugged and Claire walked off gracefully to call the maids in. Bradford turned swiftly on Daniel and Alex and just shook his head at them.

"Dad, I think Daniel's just angry and confused right now, you know teenage hormones and all," Alex smirked, rubbing at an already drying stain of blood at the front of his shirt.

"Tomorrow morning, you're going to the academy. Both of you. I don't want to hear a word! I think I'm truly done here," and then Bradford walked off, stepping over the shattered fragments of china, pottery, and clumps of dirt as he did so.

* * *

A/N: Oooh dramatic wasn't it? Well I felt that it was good to leave off at the Meades and stuff. I think there was a good balance between light-heartedness and seriousness, don't you think? Anyway please review, tell me what you think, and I'll work on the next installment. Hints to what may come? Betty actually gets her uniform and then the big day arrives for both the Meade brothers and Betty. Also Amanda appears, yay!

TBP-


	3. Episode Two

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy: The Tales of a Misfit Teen**

DISCLAIMER: Once again, I just want to state that I don't own Daniel and Betty as my personal pets erm I mean as my characters, they're owned by Horta and co. along with the rest of the UB cast. However the Van Buren family and everyone else I happen to mention in this story that you find yourself scratching your head at, definitely is the product of my imagination.

A/N: You guys are super awesome, I just want to thank you for your continued support. Your feedback really urges me to just go with my "writing flow" aka my muse and just keep chugging the work out at it comes. So without any more delay . . . on to the next one!

Episode Two: Of Impending Fashion Predicaments and Dinner Parties

As soon as Betty walked into Campus Outfitters: there was a crazy assortment of patterns, colors, and fabrics all assorted alphabetically, and further categorized by size and designer name just screaming "BUY US!" at her face. Add in the generous sprinkling of arrogant teen-aged girls chattering away on their Blackberry's, swaying rhythmically to their beat-pulsing iPods, and shrieking for "another paisley-patterned skirt, god damn it all to hell!" and you'd have an almost unbearable cacophony of noise. This was the exact reason why Hilda had phoned Christina at approximately eleven thirty pm last night; Christina was their feisty Scottish backup. The fierce blond could easily rip a "bony extra from a Tim Burton film" to verbal shreds easily, without losing her dignity, or her perfectly applied makeup in the process.

"Where's dad and Uncle McKinney?" Betty asked while distractedly flitting around the store like some misplaced butterfly.

"Dad's at the bank cashing in some checks and stuff. Now stop worryin' Betty, come on let's go shop!" Hilda squealed, making a beeline for the pile of school clothing.

"Mah dad's outside talkin' to some investors, business stuff. Probably borin' and ooh Betty!" Christina's voice became uncharacteristically shrill as she eyed one of the numerous collections of uniforms straight across from her. Betty followed her friend's gaze as Hilda moved in swiftly to join them and the two fashion-forward friends all but abandoned Betty as they swooped in on the sparse leftovers of the _Fei Wang _ collection.

Suddenly Betty felt extremely odd in her cartoon mushroom T-shirt, no wonder one of the stylish young shopping clerks had looked at her in an almost rueful sort of way when she had walked in. Betty didn't fit in amongst these pleated skirts, some possessing a girlish frilly hem, others simple and straight with a soft pastel fabric being the only distinction from plain office variety skirts. These white button up shirts with decidedly Victorian-esque frilly collars were so _not _her. Betty belonged right in her cartoon mushroom shirt and straight modest skirt.

"Oh my god Betty did you see this?"

At Betty's questioning and hesitant gaze, Hilda clucked her tongue in that sisterly, "look, I'm showing you something amazing so get your but over here" sort of way. Betty apprehensively moved over eying the uniforms as if they were the strangest articles of clothing she'd ever seen. When she moved her fingers to touch them, her hands pulled back reflexively as if the very fibers of fabric would burn her upon contact.

"It's . . . nice . . . I guess," she tried shakily, almost succeeding in ignoring the glaringly obvious price tag: $31.50 and that was just on _sale_. Christ, it wasn't as if she we was attending the same school that Queen Elizabeth once went to, it was just some private Roman Catholic School that _happened _to be really well known. _Like _all over magazines, and entering the top 10 charts in 'Best Schools of . . .' sections in yearly polls and stuff—it was that sort of 'well known'.

"Oh for Pete's sake, Betty live a little will you, hon? It won't hurt to try something new, live outta tha box, and what not, love." Christina smiled warmly, making Betty's heart flutter and her breath catch in nervousness and then there was that slight twinge of guilt. She remembered how earnest and selfless Christina's father had been when he had promised to give Betty whatever she wanted as long as it didn't cost him his whole entire company (not that it would, Betty was _so _not the materialistic type).

"Alright fine . . . we'll just order this in burgundy, cerulean and beige then, 'cause you know those are the school colors and all," Betty smiled genuinely now as Christina grabbed a few 'medium' and 'petite' uniform sets (they were packaged, air sealed, and neatly folded in plastic, Betty noted with a barely concealed eye roll – yup _so _not materialistic). Hilda greeted their father as soon as he walked in and Mr. McKinney chatted with one of the seamstresses who was a birdlike looking woman, garbed in what she _claimed _was Michael Kors. It was probably a cheap knockoff.

Then Betty was shoved into one of the dressing rooms, while Christina pressed the handful of packaged uniforms into her chest. Betty looked back a tad mortified because for St. Peter's sake she was going to be wearing a knee-length skirt, unless the picture from the ordered catalog had lied to her about it being two and a half inches above her knees.

"You'll be fine, dearie. Hilda and I will be right outside here, right Hilda?"

"Huh oh yeah just wait a sec—look, don't _make _me rip out your five dollar extensions! You think I'm scared of a little imitation Paris Hilton clone--" Hilda's voice rose up to an unnatural octave before Christina smiled apologetically at Betty and locked the door to the dressing room. The sounds of their voices were muffled but Betty was too busy focusing on the plastic wrapped crisp uniforms she would soon be trying on and _wearing_ seven days a week for the next year. Each year, the seamstress had told her, there would be a slight "upgrade of sorts" to the uniform and she had smiled deprecatingly at the young teen.

At least she hadn't looked rueful as if she only wanted to take Betty home like she was some stray dog and clothe her to look like one of those plastic-fake models. Betty was fine being herself—when she'd come home, she told herself, she'd strip off her uniform, her I'm-at-school facade, and she'd become her old self again. Yes, she certainly would and with that she began to rip open one of the packaged uniforms.

At Casa de Meade . . .

". . . And so I would like to make a formal toast to my sons; I'm proud, truly proud to see them heading towards a bright and prosperous future," Daniel snorted in a darkly amused way, watching as his father raised his glass of Chardonnay to the large gathering of applauding people in the massive dining room. In the background some modern rendition of a classical piece Daniel hadn't cared to even remember was playing, adding a layer of sophistication to the celebratory mood that had settled over the Meade mansion.

There were corporate CEOs, all garbed in some stuffy designer ensemble chatting amicably like the closet social butterflies they really were. Amidst the CEOs there were attorneys, designers, journalists, and just basically anyone and everyone that made upwards of $60k a year or more. There were also their wives, their very hot, older, childless wives. Still even Daniel had hit limits. He smoothly avoided the 'cougar' leering at him with her large olive-green eyes, grinning boyishly and inclining his head in a friendly greeting at the woman. Not tonight or ever for that matter, menopausal women with tyrannical rich husbands were a big no-no.

Instead, Daniel made his way over to a sultry pout-lipped blond. The girl was wearing a soft chenille dress, light taupe, with an empire waist to boot. The hem of the dress trailed softly over her silver diamond-encrusted open-toe heels. Modest but sexy. Daniel could _so _work with this.

Glancing back at one of the vast dining tables where servers were busily maneuvering around like bees, asking if their dinner guests wanted chicken or fish, poached fish or braised lamb or Pinot Noir or Merlot; Daniel noted that his father was engaging in deep conversation with some important looking Asian man, possibly Chinese or Korean ethnically, and (Daniel suppressed a shudder) that greasy old dude, William Van Buren. Ugh.

"Hello there," and in the small fortuitous window of ten minutes, that beautiful blond (was she wearing Chanel? Oh man, Daniel was going to die) had glided over to him. She moved gracefully, every movement fluid like water, as she regarded him with lazy long-lashed gray-blue eyes.

"Hi there yourself," goodbye lazy 'could-really-give-a-fuck' Daniel and enter 'Alex-would-be-proud-huh' playboy Daniel. He switched between the two facades so effortlessly these days, replacing a sulking pouty frown with a charming smile so easily, that he wasn't sure which facade was faker any more. At the moment that blonde girl was distracting him though, darn her, biting her bottom lip and sending clear pheromone-induced messages to him. Thank GOD for science, he never thought he'd think about that until now.

"So you're the infamous Daniel Meade," the girl smirked playfully, just a hint of girlishness in those lazy eyes of hers. She swayed, making her delicious hips move suggestively with each timed footstep, as she guided him to one of the bars. Okay, so he was a few years too early to be drinking, he thought to himself, as he poured them both generous glasses of Scotch, but who the hell cared? His dad was too busy being an evil bastard with Van Buren and Alex was probably snogging Marcelle.

"Yes, yes I am and who might you be, beautiful?"

A tinkling warm laugh answered him and she spoke in dulcet tones. Her voice, as fucking cheesy as it might have sounded was like music. 'Sunday Conquest' was long gone out of his mind, his needing to go to Immaculate Conceptional in a few hours? His mind had kissed goodbye to that thought as soon as her dreamy eyes met his own again.

"Hmm Giselle . . . Giselle Van Buren, I'm Marcelle's older sister," and then his whole body froze, like someone had stuck him into a chilled ice bath, just to fuck with his head. Thoughts scrambled through his head, there was a rush of blood, a roaring sound in his ears, as he tried to rub his temple and stave off the impending headache. His skull was throbbing, as if it were rattling against his head like it was some caged animal.

"Y-you . . .," he began stupidly. How the hell—what the—no one fucking told him that Marcelle had some long lost sister. It was bad enough that the father was an egotistical maniac who seemed to agree that his young daughter and Daniel were like fucking Prince Charming and Cinderella; a proverbial match made in wacky rich socialite heaven, but nooo this beautiful angel just HAD to be apart of that clan too. God really had it laid out for him. Daniel blinked back searing hot stars and focused on her with a controlled amount of effort.

"I—I . . . Ha, I can't understand people who don't use their tongue and lips properly, not in _that_ way, idiot," she was already familiarizing herself with the notion of teasing him. She sure was confident and surprisingly genuine, down-to-earth, touchable, tangible, as if she hadn't slipped away amongst the delusion of credit cards, charity balls, and the like yet.

"I," Daniel instructed himself to breathe, letting the coldness of the bitter liquor trickle down the back of his throat, swallowed and tried again.

"Sorry, it just seems that we haven't been formally introduced yet before . . .," Daniel trailed off expectantly, a silent signal that he was curious as to just _why _no one had introduced the elder Van Buren sister to him.

"I was in France, boarding school, dad wanted me to prepare for the business world or something like that" she explained almost mechanically noting his questioning look. She took a cautious sip from her glass, keeping her bottom lip on the rim, almost teasing him with lidded eyes. Okay . . . so she was related to Marcelle—she was her older sister, which meant that she was most definitely daddy's default "little girl." At the very least Daniel didn't feel any bitchiness exuding from her, she seemed worldly, almost understanding as she quietly turned in her stool to regard the scenery in front of her. He followed her gaze and for once he wasn't rushing to pull her upstairs, to shove her in one of the numerous rooms, to push her against one of the walls and . . . yup his pants were officially tighter now. Great.

The distant din of conversation reached the two silent observers' ears and Daniel tuned in immediately to hear Vincent Bianchi and Becks conversing about well what they conversed about best, their latest lays.

". . . and so she was like, "Oh my GOD I hoped you brought a condom, Vince!'"

"And then what happened?"

"I whipped out the condom and was like, 'Bam! We about to do it like Emeril Lagasse in here, babe.'"

"Oh sweet Jesus Vince, only you was it fla--"

Daniel turned off his hearing, before it got any raunchier. Vincent was the cousin of Gio Rossi, their fathers jointly owned a fashion designing company in Italy. Becks on the other hand was the son of an entrepreneur originally hailing from Britain. The two of them put together could easily cause a room full of girls to swoon and bow almost in a degrading way at their feet. There was that and they had the filthiest language for being such young cultured socialites.

Anyway, back to Giselle . . .

"Oh, look it's Marcelle. I'm sorry, if you'll excuse me," she touched his hand in a lingering gesture of fondness mixed with want . . .? He wasn't sure but Daniel could barely repress the goofy twelve-year-old grin on his face and the tingling in his hands didn't go away for a good ten minutes.

It was when Giselle turned back and said something so harmless and polite, something purely borne from years of strict behavioral and social schooling that Daniel almost lost it, ". . . could you watch my drink for me? I'll be just a minute."

He watched as she crossed the expanse of the brightly lit dining room, speckled with dancing and conversing couples: young and old to talk with Marcelle. Wherever Marcelle was . . . Daniel groaned, yes, Alex was sure to follow. Sure enough his brother appeared looking like some smug ass Grecian god—like Adonis or something with his perfectly sloped nose and defined cheekbones. Daniel hated him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wearily knocked back the whole glass of liquor as his brother seated himself next to him.

"So you finally met Giselle." Alex smiled, a mirthful gleam in his eyes. If he knew something then he damn well was making sure to keep quiet about it. Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel could see his father watching them out of the corner of his eye, but he was occupying himself with conversing with one of their aunts.

"Yeah," Daniel really wanted to ask, "What the fuck is it to you? You have Ms. Slutty-McSlut-Slut to keep you company," but he sensibly decided to shut his mouth. He wasn't undignified enough to start a scene with his brother during a formal public gathering. Though he'd never openly admit it, his reputation as a Meade in public, meant a lot to him. He wasn't about to tarnish his image to the disgrace of himself mostly, by fighting in public with his brother over a stupid girl. Hell, he'd just met Giselle a few minutes ago.

"She's nice right?"

"Extremely . . ."

"Hm," Alex tapped his chin with a well clipped nail (as opposed to Daniel's bitten down ones) and watched his younger brother squirm uncomfortably in his seat. Like a tiger, observing its latest prey, Alex let his haunting blue gaze silently send a challenge to Daniel. That look was sending a thinly-veiled threat, an emotionally-charged message that clearly stated, "Stay away from her."

". . . well," Alex's smooth baritone jolted Daniel from his stupor as he watched Claire, their mother float around in a gauzy dress, socializing and drinking at the same time. She met his eyes and smiled sadly at him before raising her glass of wine to him and took a controlled sip.

"Yes?"

"Just be careful with her."

"What do you mean?" Daniel couldn't bury the irritation in his voice anymore because seriously why the hell was Alex being so watchful over Giselle? He already had Marcelle, why take the only supposedly sane sister for himself too? Could Daniel never earn anything untarnished, could he never just patch up his slip ups and move on for once? There always had to be some hurdle, some unseen or unmarked obstacle, didn't there—something to make his life unnecessarily hard and stress-filled.

Christ . . .

"And? There's nothing more to _fucking _say Daniel, just watch yourself around her, that's all." Alex gave him a "friendly" pat on the shoulder, squeezing it, once, twice before meeting Giselle and locking his intense passion-filled gaze with hers. Daniel winced, deciding to take the whole damn bottle of Scotch for himself. None of these old fuckers needed to get any drunker or tipsier tonight, holding the chilled bottle protectively to his chest; Daniel tried to maneuver his way through the crowd before his parents saw him, he just had to make it upstairs and then he'd be able to--

"Daniel!" That voice, full of false sweetened honey . . . he looked up to meet Marcelle's dark brown eyes. She was wearing a form-fitting strapless plum dress with scattered sequins gleaming like stars against the silken backdrop. Her hair was swept up in a messy up-do, looking oddly charming on her. He had to begrudgingly admit that the girl knew how to put herself together, the thought made his chest actually tighten painfully when he wondered if Giselle ever taught her how to dress properly.

"You look absolutely," she leaned in, temporarily clouding his nose with that smell so reminiscent of spring--all chamomile and lilacs and lavender, "delectable."

He was sold, the way her voice dipped, the way that slight rasp at the end just sounded, and his name on her tongue . . . gods, he almost stopped loathing her altogether just then. Marcelle was dare he say charming the hell out of him. Daniel felt his face relax yet the slight flush from earlier remained. He leaned back so that their arms brushed against each other. His skin tingled feverishly now.

Maybe Giselle (she'd somehow broken into his thoughts again) had taught Marcelle how to apply makeup too and—and . . . fuck he'd just met her a few minutes ago, all he knew was that she was the spawn of Van Buren aka Satan and that she'd come back from France, all decidedly European and shit. He'd forget her after he'd get lost in a bottle of Scotch and some nameless screwable girl.

"Marcelle . . . you're looking pretty nice . . . lovely, real lovely." Daniel slurred, already feeling the sluggish affects of the alcohol swim through his brain in a warm blurry haze. It was comforting, burning, aching warmth. He needed this and GOD he sounded like one of those god awful emo kids or something . . .the fuck? He wasn't depressed or suicidal, he just wanted to get smashed, fuck a chick, and forget about that freaking beautiful girl. Marcelle's sister. Whatever . . .

"Thanks Daniel, we should uh christen your bed sometime," insert amused forced laugh here. She could see right into his glassy ocean-hued eyes and she could tell that he was drunk. For Marcelle, that only meant that seducing him would be that much easier but it wouldn't necessarily make it rewarding; because it wouldn't be challenging if his tongue and legendary libido were dramatically loosened.

"Ah and there they are now, aren't they just gorgeous?" Bradford gushed like some pansy ass doting mother. Daniel forced himself to not roll his eyes in the presence of his father, least of all in front of Van Buren Senior. As much as he detested the family, he had to keep a straight face in order to not tarnish his family's image, it was part of the way he was raised, to be respectful even if it meant that he had to force it out.

"Quiet striking they are, if I do say so myself." William turned to Daniel and smiled warmly at him—that smile was fake, tight, forced, false, whatever. Daniel wanted to wipe that shit-eating grin off of his face, he wished that Giselle wasn't related to this f'ed up family, and well, at least Marcelle wasn't trying to eat his face off . . . yet. He just had to wait until their parents left then the tigress in her would flip on like an abandoned light switch. Flash, just like that, she'd get her claws out ready to pounce. Damn manipulative bitch, he was absolutely sickened by her.

Right now, Marcelle was taking the opportunity to latch unto his arm, gripping it and snuggling close to him so that some stray tendrils tickled the goose-fleshed skin of his neck. Daniel, whether it was due to the alcohol (he would later swear by this, looking back on it) or whether he was going insane, the younger Meade for a few minutes allowed himself to be drawn in by her faint sweet scent.

But she's a bitch, you hate her, he had to remind himself.

"Daniel, I trust that you've taken the time to ah . . . reflect back on what happened yesterday."

Shit, trust his dad to bring up the haunting phantasms of yesteryear in any way shape of form regardless of the occasion. Daniel suppressed the urge to take a swig of the bottle he'd since taken to hiding in his jacket, buttoning it up so that only a patch of his white button up shirt remained visible.

"Yeah, I did," and he'd _really _appreciate it if his dad stopped bringing it up now. Christ.

"Good, well it's nice to see you two finally conversing amiably and whatnot. I won't disturb you two lovebirds." Daniel wanted to melt into the floor, he'd seriously consider kissing what ever deity was up there or down—whichever that could make that possible for him. Marcelle smiled in that self-satisfied way, leaning into him and as he saw Alex kissing Giselle openly, all sleek tongue and teeth, probably taking the time to explore every ridge and tooth, he ceased caring. Since Daniel was drunk as hell, needy (the tightness down there hadn't lessened any when the younger Van Buren showed up), and Marcelle was willing, he figured that he'd be charitable. Marcelle could get what she wanted—just as long as it was on . . . his terms.

"Marcelle?"

"Hm?" She turned to him, dark brown eyes effectively luring him in and pulling him away from the kissing pair like a magnetic force. He hadn't noticed Claire narrow her eyes in disgust and shame from across the room, how she'd been watching them like a hawk, how she had calculated Marcelle's schemes in just a few minutes. Daniel placed a warm hand on her thigh and slid up slowly, that small shiver meant that Marcelle got the message. Good. This would be easy, quick, possibly painful in an emotional and slightly physically rough way—but it would benefit them both.

"Do you want to go somewhere private, maybe talk for a bit? I could order up some left-over hors d'oeurvres and ask them to send up some wine for us."

Marcelle gestured to the bulge in his jacket, she was keen, nothing got past her.

"And what's that? I think you're keeping the bottle all nice and toasty there."

"Maybe, well what do you say?" He fought to keep the gruff edge out of his voice though she caught the undercurrent of lust anyway and licked her lips.

"Sure."

And so it was . . .

A/N: Okay so I lied . . . no orientation day at the academy yet. This story's only going to be slow and tedious in pacing before it quickly picks up, folks. So yeah I needed to leave you begging for more. I think you can tell where Daniel was going with this whole 'I'll-let-Marcelle-win-just-this-once' kind of thing. Don't worry you'll seen find out just why Marcelle is loathed so much by Claire and Daniel and why William and Bradford seem so adamant to get them together. About Betty and her uniform—well we'll find out just how much of a change it'll be to see her in something so formal for school attire. So stay tuned and I hope you enjoy this chapter.


	4. Episode Three

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy**

DISCLAIMER: I so don't own the characters in this fic, well save for the deliciously evil Marcelle and the rest of the conniving Van Buren family.

Author's Notes: Oh my god, the long awaited chapter is finally here! Whoo!

Betty and Daniel are finally gonna meet folks!

Episode Three: Secret Harry Potter Fanatic Meet Hugh Hefner 2.0

It was an inveterate fact that morning rituals were unchangeable and extremely agitating but this wasn't so for our leading protagonist. Oh no, in fact one could even say that Betty _enjoyed _(yes, that's right) rousing from her oh so comfortable slumber at the crack of dawn. It was for this reason that Betty Suarez kicked off her covers at approximately 6:30 am and yawned like an irritable lioness, stretching her arms out only to hear the satisfying crack of long-since sore bones.

Hilda made a disgusted face and groaned, "Betty that's _not _cute. Up, up, up!" However, unlike Hilda her meticulously dressed older sister, Betty did not have the heart or the patience to piece together an outfit. There was that and because Hilda was attending a public school she had the freedom to wear whatever the hell she wanted, so she could waltz outside in a pair of booty shorts if she wanted to. No shame, no gain, except only Gina Gambino would venture out wearing half of a skirt like it was a pair of jeans, Hilda would grumble.

"I'm up, I'm up!" Smack the alarm so it shuts its whiny tinny noisy butt up, check. Get her bunny ear slippers on, check. They were worn for convenience not for fashion sense. Now it was time to start the daily morning ritual, so Betty was off, uniform in hand (Hilda had hastily retrieved it from their walk-in closet; yes they shared a bedroom), to beautify herself.

By Betty beautification-standards, she had to say that she looked _quite _cute. Her hair was done up in a messy bun, secured in place by a hand-me-down butterfly clip, quirky in its shade of convivial burnt-orange, that she was too sentimentally attached to. She couldn't bring herself to chuck the accessory away. What few loose kinky (Betty had quickly wet her hair in the sink) tendrils there were, she let hang down on either side of her face.

Fighting to get a pair of socks on, while trying to simultaneously buckle and snap her silver belt in place, Betty started humming a Regina Spektor tune.

Hilda was already flitting around the room like a little humming bird fired up for the day; she could _never _remain calm in the mornings. Like their mother had been, Hilda was always busying herself with making sure that she had everything in place. Once she was down checking her messenger Paris Hilton bag (she'd gotten it for a neat little bargain at half off) for the umpteenth time, Hilda was up to dragging Betty down the stairs.

"Girls! Breakfast! I made your favorite, smiley-face pancakes!" Ignacio beamed, his smile getting even wider as he greeted each flustered sister with a quick peck on their cheeks. Once they were seated, he finished plating their food and watched as Hilda practically wolfed down her own food, talking a mile a minute. Some things never changed, he mused amusedly to himself.

"Well _someone_ needs to slow down; you might just choke on that and _then _who will we have to keep my youngest daughter in line?" Ignacio chuckled and Hilda rolled her eyes in partial glee.

"Oh Papi, she's a growing girl, let her eat the way she pleases," Betty replied, chewing methodically. She was a much slower eater, taking after their father.

"Right, just make sure that you don't come back blue in the face, Hilda." Ignacio smiled warmly before setting about making himself his own plate.

"I won't Papi, I won't. So Betty, do you know who you're going to board with?"

Board . . . boarding . . . right it was a boarding school. She would be living there, twenty-four/seven from now on. She would be taking all of her meals there, learning, studying, sleepi8ng, bathing, and just yeah . . . living there. How could she forget about that?

"Uh . . . no," Betty chuckled nervously.

"Well you know _mija_ you could request for Christina or Amanda to board with you."

"Oh that's right," Betty recalled just then that she had phoned Amanda and Christina in an extremely exuberant mood (because it was _freaking _Immaculate Conceptional, and there orientation ceremony had been a few hours away at that point), just to chat about the upcoming day. Amanda had said something about "hot ass boys, god I want to wrap them all up and save them for Christmas, maybe mark their boxes with something naughty like . . .", ". . . going to have to get you a boyfriend . . .", and ". . . rooming across the hall from where you'll be, it's gotta be in your packet. Gosh, don't you check for anything, Beth?" (Ugh, she was going to have to remind her to NOT call her 'Beth' when they got to the academy; it was such a childish nickname, so school-marmish).

Right, so that's what she had said.

"Well Amanda's going to be across the hall from me so I guess that just leaves Christina and a whole slew of girls that might chew my head off." Betty groaned. If they were anything like the stuck up snobs she had encountered at the Campus Outfitters then she'd rather send a kind letter of objection than deal with that. Those girls had been brutal; Betty fiercely stabbed into a piece of pancake and chewed slowly, watching Hilda as she polished off a glass of orange juice.

"Well next order of business is . . . how are you going to get there? Hilda takes the bus right . . .," Ignacio paused to glance at his watch before Hilda, speedy little thing that she was, beat him to it.

". . . Now. Bye Papi, stay away from those icky boys Betty, or at least save some for me." Hilda winked merrily. Betty managed to swat at her sister's bag before she was gone, slamming the screen door behind her. Ignacio shook his head and turned to Betty after smoothing his hands down on his jeans.

"And you have to get to work now . . . well I could just call Christina to pick me up."

"Alright, well _mija_ have a wonderful day. I'll miss you."

"I'll come back during the holidays sometimes." Betty replied but she couldn't help but swallow the thick coating of bile that had risen up in her throat at her father's last words. He'd miss her. She would only get a few days or weeks at a time to come see them. It'd be her longest time ever being away from home with a bunch of girls and boys she didn't know. She tried her hardest not to succumb to the swell of emotion running amok in her system.

"I'll be fine," she forced a smile, already speed-dialing Christina.

The Old Switcheroo . . . 

Daniel Meade was _not _a morning person; he hated that stupid old phrase: early to bed, early to rise, or something like that. Whenever he or Alex woke up far too late and grumbled irately about needing more rest, their grandfather would casually throw out that saying, with a knowing smile further crinkling his weathered face. It was as if he were mocking them enough to wordlessly convey that they were being terribly hardheaded and it would be the death of them or at least their undoing.

"Sir, sir you've got to wake UP!" A little forceful voice shook with an unchecked rage as a slender hand snaked its way up his arm, making the hairs there bristle. If someone just wanted an early morning screw session then why couldn't they just _say _so, goodness the nerve of some people! However once the person's hand reached his shoulder they started to shake, hard, jolting him awake in an instant.

Hitting his head back against the headboard so that it throbbed painfully, Daniel held back a curse since it was only 6:50 in the morning, and glared at the maid bathed in the dimmest slivers of sunlight.

"Helga I presume?" He put on his best charming smirk for an added effect but Helga was as cold as the iciest tundra (ooh, maybe he should save that for later, write that down, commit it to memory, it'd be a great starter line for a poem and . . . yeah focus, Daniel, focus). Helga who nodded to confirm that yes, that was her name, pats for Daniel, wrenched the covers from his lean athletic body and smiled evilly as he curled in on himself. Evil bitch of a maid. Why the _hell _did she have to steal his precious heat for! Oh well, two could play at that game. He still had three more minutes until he'd have to jump into the automated heating shower so he'd make it quick.

Pulling the maid flush against him, Daniel proceeded to tickle the living daylights out of her . . . until that is, her foot aimed right for his precious family jewels. Biting back yet another curse, Daniel pushed her gently away from him, eyeing her as if she'd grown a second head because _really _she was going for Daniel Jr?

Shaking his head, he walked into the bathroom, deciding that playtime was over. Upon entering Daniel was faced with the most mortifying sight in his life. You know when your brother decides to snog his girlfriend right in front of you, or when your brother decides to bed aforementioned girlfriend in well _your _bed? Well . . .

"What the _hell _Alex?!"

"Oh gods, sorry, right! We were _just _finishing up here," Alex barely suppressed a metallic tinged chortle before disentangling himself from a sopping wet Marcelle. Where the hell was Giselle, hadn't Alex specifically warned Daniel to stay away from her last night? Jesus, he couldn't stand his brother . . . and people wondered why he turned out the way he did.

"Get out! We have to leave in like another twenty minutes, what the hell is wrong with you! This isn't bunny-boinking time! Save the freaking for later, Christ! And why the hell are you doing it in my shower anyway!?" Not sparing him another glance, Daniel turned away (for fear of his burning his delicate corneas at the sight of them) and pulled Marcelle one-handed out of the shower away from Alex.

Smiling lasciviously at Daniel, Marcelle winked her eyes at him and whispered silkily into his ear once Alex was out of earshot finally deciding to change.

"What we had last night was _amazing_."

And the memories of whispered touches and barely spoken promises (that weren't true, couldn't be true) and the memory of barely memorized skin and textures flooded his perceptional senses. Daniel was choking. He had to get the hell away from her, out of here, and for once that academy wasn't sounding too bad. Bolting out of the bathroom with his newly obtained freshly ironed uniform in hand, Daniel secured the lock to his bedroom once he pushed her out. Stupid girl.

Platform 9 and 3/4? No, not quite . . .

They were traveling by train. Once Betty had heard that and had read it fives times over on her school's official traveling pamphlet and just once more to be sure she wasn't dreaming (you could never be too sure), she had to repress her high-pitched girly squeal. The secret Harry Potter fan in her instantly thought of the platform that Harry had to stand on each year he went back to the looming castle (apparently the academy looked something like a castle from the outside too). She wondered if the headmaster or rather the architect and founder of the school were secret fans of J. R. R. Tolkien and J. K. Rowling.

Clutching her luggage and pulling along an extra suitcase in another hand, Betty struggled to scurry behind Amanda who barely chanced a glance back to see if her little friend was beside her. Christina shook her head balefully at the tousled mane of dirty blonde hair bobbing in front of them before grabbing a bag from a grateful Betty.

"Don't . . .," Christina warned, skillfully suppressing a mirthful laugh as Betty spun around like a little 12 year old, much to the dismay of some disgruntled passengers. Her luggage bumped into one or two passersby before she mumbled an apology. Still, it had to be said . . .

"We're off to Hogwarts!" Christina and Betty chorused before collapsing into a fit of nerdy giggles. The two could sit and watch the entire set of Harry Potter movies, sobbing, sniffling, laughing, and smiling like a pair of bunch goofy idiots the whole way through. Amanda would just sit too bored to tears until she'd be forced to switch to something else more "tolerable like Legally Blond" which thankfully all three girls liked.

"We're so nicknamin' the headmaster Dumbledore!"

"And why is that? Luna Lovegood?"

"Because Hermione," Christina playfully emphasized as if this were the most widely known fact in the world, "he has the long stroke-able beard and the crazy amounts of wisdom!"

"Or Gandalf, could work too!"

Another set of uncontrollable giggles which made a few of the porters look at them a little funny. Like they gave a hoot.

Amanda was strutting her stuff along the platform like it was a runway, earning a few phone numbers along the way, until her eyes brushed along a tall . . . nice . . . refreshing glass of water. Daniel Meade.

"Girls!" She shrieked excitedly, earning a pair of hypnotizing baby blues to lock on her like a radar missile. She resisted the urge to swoon for the sake of her friends. Christina and Betty instantly stopped what they were doing to board the car that Daniel had just gone into. He was garbed in a stylish Ralph Lauren winter coat, dusky midnight blue, Fall, 2008 collection by the looks of it. Oh yeah, Amanda was good, she was darn good.

"Wha' issit?" Christina hissed before following Amanda's perfectly manicured nail to the hot young guy in question. No way, that couldn't be . . . in their car? Had they struck their luck? He was infamous. He was a modern day Lothario, and so not Christina's type. Still there was no denying that this boy was H-O-T, struggling to seat them selves near him, the girls bustled for a seat and found one right in the middle of the car. Much to the chagrin of the other passengers they still had to load their luggage.

"Could you _please _move Little Miss Muffet over there?" One of the girls seated near them asked as Betty struggled to push her luggage into a particularly uncooperative cargo compartment.

"Do you wan' me ta' make you scream like a lil' prissy girl, 'cause I could," Christina's voice dropped to a menacingly venomous tone. The girl glared daggers at her, choosing to flip her silky mane of long black hair over her slender shoulder, rather than meet up to that challenge. Amanda smiled cheekily at Christina, high-fived her, and pushed the suitcase with all of her might into the compartment before securing it shut.

"I owe you one," Betty answered breathlessly. She noted that one of the seats was vacant and that from where she was sitting she could get a better perspective of Daniel's well chiseled face. He was chewing his bottom lip, surveying a neatly drawn map while glancing at his gold wristwatch every so often. He didn't look so lecherous now, just like a harmless businessman too worried about his first day at work. It was sort of cute actually and then as quickly as that thought came into her head, Betty forced herself to shake it out. It was hormones, yeah, that was it. Nothing more, she'd forget about him in a few hours.

"That's Daniel Meade."

"I've heard." Betty smirked, earning an irate scoff from Amanda who took to filing her nails distractedly. Betty glanced every now and then and was met with the curious pair of luminescent ocean-blue eyes gazing back at her. Beautiful. But he was untouchable, filthy, woman-using, Daniel Meade. Ew. No thank you, she thought to herself before turning around to engage in a much needed fan girling chat with Christina, and then . . .

"Excuse me," Betty turned around, looking every which way before the voice called to her again. Deep, baritone, silky, well trained. Had to be the playboy again, she figured.

"M-me?" She called disbelievingly, stuttered nervously over her words, before composing herself as his eyes landed on hers. Studying her, probably undressing her, and the thought of that made her steel her resolve anymore. She wouldn't be easy like those other girls and turn into malleable putty in his hands. No way.

"It's usually polite to answer back when someone's talking to you," Daniel smiled and she couldn't place if it was one of warmth or one of barely concealed cynicism.

"Oh ha-ha, you uh got me," she chuckled nervously. Amanda poked her none too gently in the ribs and Christina gave her a knowing smile before the two engaged in some whispered discussion that Betty ceased to care about for the moment.

"Right," he was looking at her hair, studying the various clips and pins that she had stuck into it; the messy hairstyle that she had been so proud of this morning, suddenly seemed to insignificant under his scrutinizing gaze. So, why was little rich boy so interested in the girl from Queens now?

"You're not from around here are you? Thank you," Daniel paused to accept an icy glass of water, taking a generous sip from it.

"Uh . . . what do you mean?" Betty asked testily, accepting her own before the trolley rolled past and the train sped up just a fraction, jostling a few sleeping passengers awake.

"Well, your accent . . . and your dress . . .,"

"So I have an _accent _and suddenly my fashion sense is so . . . so outlandish to you? I'm gonna take a wild guess here and just assume that they don't teach you guys manners over at your snobby little rich kids school," Daniel looked flabbergasted at her boldness; there was a reason why Betty held back on her Queens-style attitude.

"Betty what the _hell _are you doing? That's Daniel Meade, _the _Meade in case you hadn't noticed! You can't just talk to him like that!" Amanda hissed pleadingly, a twinge of what was that? Annoyance? Shock? Betty didn't care. He had no right, no matter who he was, no matter what his wealth was worth, none of that mattered now . . .

She could be a downright monstrosity when she felt threatened enough and right now she damn as hell was. Who the hell was _he _to assume that her fashion sense and her accent (did she even have ONE?) was a dead-ringer for the fact that she wasn't from the Hamptons or whatever!

The nerve . . .

"I—Look, what I meant to say is that you just don't seem like you're from here—I mean from this part," Daniel scrambled to search for words, his face turning redder with each passing minute. Betty partially amused and feeling a touch more sadistic at the moment, smirked at him.

"And just what _part _do you think I'm from, Mr. Meade?"

Daniel raised an eyebrow at her because now she was just being plain audacious.

"Pfft uh, Brooklyn?" A quick shake of the head and a raised eyebrow was his answer.

". . . Um Staten Island?"

"Oh no, no, no," Betty sipped her water again, calming herself down as she just played his questions down to ignorance and misinformation. The Meades probably didn't get out that much, she guessed.

"Queens," she finally answered him, saving his brain from severely wracking itself to death.

"Oh right well uh okay then, by the way, it'd be sort of helpful if you'd just learn to be a bit more well-mannered with people; Grumpiness doesn't look good on you at all," and with those tersely bitten words and that disgusting cocky smile on his face, Daniel left an awestruck Betty clutching her cold glass of water in white-hot fury. Did he just . . .? He did _not _just put her in her place? No way! No way!

"Breathe Betty, now, now, it's okay I give you guys a month or two tops before you're all over each other," Amanda smiled to herself. Betty didn't catch the joke, preferring to glare at her before moodily stewing in her seat. Stupid rich kid. She was going to _hate _Immaculate Conceptional and the worst part was that they had an hour or more in travel time before they reached there. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

A / N: Meeting numero uno has started. Thoughts, comments, and suggestions will be much appreciated. It'll earn you delicious invisible cookie!

- TBP


	5. Episode Four

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy: Tales of a Misfit Teen**

DISCLAIMER: Don't own Betty, Daniel, or the rest of the gang. Marcelle and the rest of the scheming Van Buren clan as well as their associates are mine however.

Author's Notes: Not much to say about this one. I want to thank the following authors from the UB community for inspiring me at one point or another. I'm a lurker, I usually don't review often but I felt that a heartfelt thank you and written recognition was in order because their stories were so inspiring to me as a long-time Detty fan: clueless1der: check out her awesome fic, _The Kidnapping of Daniel Meade and What's Her Name_. It took a new spin on their relationship to nurse my wounds over the changing storylines in the newer seasons of the show. This fic made me cry, laugh, squeal (multiple times), blush, and melt into a puddle of gooey sap all at once. It's wonderfully written and its so unassuming, not taking itself too, too seriously 100% of the time.

Next up is no2benry, man, what can I say about her? I stumbled upon her fan fiction and fell in love instantaneously. They're like my own personal shots of heroin or something or my own little bites of chocolate. They're so addictive and you know you shouldn't indulge in them too heavily because you could totally succumb to addiction yet at the same time . . . you don't care. I made sure to scour her profile for every little bit of Detty goodness I could. Her witty Daniel and Betty inspired mine because although they were whimsical at times, she totally nailed down Betty's sometimes-totally-noticeable awkwardness/shyness and Daniel's perverted tendencies; the girl has a skill with words and a total talent for keeping everyone in character at all times. It's actually pretty challenging to write a convincing Wilhelmina and even her OC Rosa (soo cute!) totally won me over. It's amazing how she makes everything just _fit _like a good puzzle or something.

Last one is samirant, I turned to the _Fishbowl Vignettes _as one of my first comforting Detty fics. Each chapter gave me small sliver of a Detty moment which I definitely appreciated. This fic will be and should be 150% guaranteed to make you cry, squee, want to glomp and/or tackle the author, and laugh. It's just like soul food, comforting and good for the soul.

Wow that was long soooo . . . without further delay . . . chapitre quatre. Also on a little side note, it just occurred to me that I've been referring to the character 'Gina Gambarro' incorrectly and rewriting her last name as 'Gambino' so from now on when I mention her, I'll be making that correction. Just thought I'd point that out. ^^

Episode Four: You're so Not Cut Out to be Draco Malfoy

"That's yer luggage, righ'?" Christina scrunched up her nose in partial confusion, holding up a navy blue messenger bag for Betty to inspect it. Nodding, Betty took it from her friend and thanked her before shouldering the bag. The train had come to a smooth halt in front of a looming five-story grey brick building that looked like it had been imported straight from the English countryside. Betty was way too excited to even chance a look out of her window before she picked up the last of her carrier luggage and made her way out of the compartment car. Daniel, the douche, was no where to be seen, so she could finally exhale, albeit shakily. He was such a jerk, pointing out the most shallow of things that made her supposedly _different_ and not unique, not interesting, but just _different_. Even the way his tone was--so filled with wonderment and childlike disgust and ignorance, even _that _had managed to tick her off.

". . . such an insufferable jerk, ooh," she produced a pass that had been mailed to her a few days back at the behest of a young porter who nodded to her, indicating that she could step off the platform.

". . . should've gave it to him right then and there," Betty took to muttering almost intelligibly whenever she was mad. She also had the terrible side-effects of seeing red, like a bull, and taking to almost random spurts of violen--wait, no that was Hilda. Betty just muttered a lot and sometimes broke out into Spanglish. At the moment she could feel the pulsing throb of a headache come on, but she managed to pinch it away from the bridge of her nose and keep it at bay long enough to get to the large gates ahead. The wrought iron ivy and moss-covered gates swung open and a score of guardsmen clad in well-tailored suits (like out of a James Bond movie or something, she thought wryly) escorted them through the grounds.

"Everyone keep in a single file-line! Girls to the right and boys to the left, if you'd please!"

A cool female voice rang out over the loudspeakers that Betty hadn't noticed was situated in the west-most tower a few feet ahead of them until she'd heard it. Shuffling alongside Christina (because Amanda was far too busy trying to get some guy's number to care to stick with them), Betty readjusted her hold on her bags and waited.

"I can't believe we're actually going to be _living _here! Oh my gosh this is too cool, Christina!" Betty gushed, finally able to squash the growing feelings of animosity between her and Daniel (for Pete's sake she'd just met the boy, but he already was starting to act like a class-A jerk). The best part was that she'd only be with her friends and maybe, just maybe she'd make some new ones here. A girl with soft blond curls framing her round face smiled back at her and Christina and waved merrily. Yeah, this didn't seem so bad at all.

"I know and I heard tha' the _food _is suppos'ed to be amazin'. Outta' this world Betteh, first-class caviar, calamari, and fillet Mignon!" Christina and Betty squealed, envisioning steaming calamari and plates of fillet Mignon with steamed baby carrots. Amanda suddenly fluttered over to them, toting a tall, lanky and very gay looking boy (come _on_ he was _so _rocking the Armani suit with that touch of lip-gloss on his lips. And the eyeliner? Dead giveaway) behind her. His smile turned mischievous as soon as he spotted Betty and Christina. Betty really had no choice but to brace herself for insults, this place could turn into a battlefield once she was faced with the truly elite. They only cared about three or four things: money, chicks, boys, and oh yeah sex. Lots of sex. This guy could prove to be no different than his rich peers as far as his personal interests were concerned. Better to be safe than sorry.

"Hola! Oh my god it's my own personal little slice of Mexico," the boy clapped his hands, his bright eyes gleaming with childlike glee. Betty resisted the urge to throttle him, her patience wearing thin.

"Hello to you too . . . ?" She decided that greeting him in a voice with just a hint of uncertainty would suffice . . . for now.

"This is Marc, Marc St. James, he's a new resident here, moved from New England. Isn't he just adorable?" Amanda hugged Marc to her chest as if they were joined by the hip and if he was the least bit turned on by her sudden gesture then he sure hid it well. And yep he was gay, he didn't even so much as stare at her boobs as they were practically crushed against his chest, before he politely pulled away. In fact he seemed to be a lot more interested in Christina because he'd been eyeballing her the whole entire time, as if he were drinking in a nice tall glass of . . . whatever sort of beer they served in Scotland. Betty forgot.

"And aw, you must be from Scotland!" Marc easily strode alongside the long line of boys that had arrived, donning their customary navy-blue vests and pants, white dress shirts, and burgundy plaid ties with pride.

"Yea an' what o' it my lil' fairy?" Christina smiled a little too sweetly curtsying for one of the guards as they helped their other companion to open the next set of gates for the incoming flood of new arrivals.

"Oh nothing . . .," Marc, suddenly as if he were a twitchy ADD-inflicted child (Betty would bet her two front teeth that he secretly was _AND _gay only because it was sooo obvious), spun around and leaned down to conspiratorially whisper into Christina's ear.

"Whoa ever heard of personal space, my mate?" Christina smirked, pulling away slightly.

Marc rolled his eyes a little too dramatically and continued, ". . . are the girls there as fierce as you, my little vixen? You know," he continued, completely ignoring Betty (because he _WAS _gay right?!), Christina, and even Amanda's open-mouthed reactions, ". . . God should've made you a red-head, rawr."

Then as quickly as he had flirted with her, _rather _openly, he sauntered off to catch up with the fast-moving huddle of boys. Betty was still trying to get her vocal chords to obey her brain but so far no sounds were coming out of her mouth. He--there was NO way he liked Christina. He was so gay that he even made Carson Kressley and Christian Siriano seem straight and THAT was saying something.

"Wha-I-did he just . . .?" Christina sputtered.

"Yeah, guess he doesn't like to take it up the butt after all," Amanda huffed, almost annoyed at the strange sexual orientation of her new friend. Betty turned to her questioningly because why would it matter to _her _so much if he was gay and then she decided to voice that.

"Amanda, not to seem crude or anything but why do you care so much if he's gay or straight or even pan-sexual for that matter?" Betty asked, temporarily letting the burgeoning excitement settle in her gut.

"Well because everyone _knows _that gay guys make the best shopping partners, plus you can be friends with them and never have to think about whether the relationship will get screwed up due to sudden feewings' and junk." Amanda replied. Betty made a noncommittal sound before she was separated by Amanda as a smaller team of guards came to separate everyone according to who their assigned roommate was.

"McKinney and Suarez," the voice blared over the buzzing chatter of millions of students, effectively managing to quiet them down in a matter of seconds. Christina smiled at her before they walked up to two young twenty-something guys garbed in black Italian suits that looked like they cost more than Betty's whole entire wardrobe. The boys were separated and ordered into smaller groups in the same fashion, names A-L were paired together while names M-S were paired together and the last group T-Z were paired and sent to the southern-most end of their respectable wing.

The "wings" as they were termed, Betty soon learned, were actually long stretches of hallway, paneled in creamy wood and lit by dim sconces that gave the rooms a decidedly romantic Victorian-era-esque charm to them. They were carpeted with rich fabric and came to a dead end where two double doors made of rosewood led into the actual dormitories, studying halls, and recreational gyms. Amanda mock-waved and air-kissed them as she waltzed off to join her new partner, who Betty realized was the same girl with softly curled blond hair she'd spotted much earlier on.

"Where are we going to go after this?" Betty asked in a rushed whisper, barely able to mask the excitement that made her whole face glow in typical hormonal-induced glee.

"We'll get a quick tour now an' then," Christina paused to rummage around in her Burberry bag before she produced her silver-leafed schedule and leafed through it distractedly, ". . . we'll meet tha' 'eadmaster and _then _we'll get to _finally _retreat and kick back in our dorms."

"Awesome!" Betty squealed before she was quickly silenced with an icy glare that screamed 'shut up so I can get on with this damn tour' from their decidedly hot guard and newly designated tour guide.

And so on "Slytherin's" Side . . .

"Yo, yo check that girl out man, she's got a _fine _ass on her. Whoo, I'd so hit that in a hot minute! Damn!" Vincent declared, wolf-whistling, in typical Lothario-esque fashion as a girl with a rather accentuated rear end swayed past him. As if she knew his eyes were sliding over her form, the girl made sure to swing her curvy hips just so, as if she were seductively hip-swinging to a musical beat that only she could hear. Daniel rolled his eyes but couldn't resist the urge to glance at her once or twice.

"Yeah she's pretty damn good-looking." Daniel observed, lightly punching Gio in the arm so that he could observe the girl model-strutting in her fitted school girl outfit.

"Well _hello _hot little mami, whoo!" Rossi whistled and the girl turned back and winked at them with her unique hazel eyes. Were those flecks of _gold_ in her irises? Oh crap, Daniel _really_ needed to control himself.

He made a mental note to get that girl's name later, that light-coffee-hued skin wasn't going to leave his mind now for at least another ten minutes. Sometimes he really _loved _being a guy. A lot. Besides the lack of PMSing, constant bitchiness for no reason, and lack of well . . . monthly . . . _stuff_, it was just nice to be able to bang someone until they saw stars without any sort of emotional or mental attachment. Sex was so not a cerebral issue for him at all, it was all physical, musky, sweaty, passionat--

"Meade and Bianchi," a crisp female voice rang out over the almost intolerable din of the impatient crowd. Daniel smirked before he high fived his partner-in-crime, gods he could tell that they were going to have _way _too much fun, God might as well strike them down now for all of the sinful thoughts raging in their heads. They were thinking: girls plus expensive alcohol plus sneaking out with a pinch of clubbing during the weekends if they could manage it, then mix it well and BAM! Sex, lots of raunchy, 'can't-tell-your-overly-conservative-mom-'cause-she'd-kill-me' sex.

Gio would be across the hall from them and would be rooming with Becks.

Becks, otherwise known as Beckett Scott, typically hung out with Daniel and Connor (an Aussie import that sounded like Hugh Jackman but had the body and visage of a buffer and more rugged looking Heath Ledger with ocean-blue eyes, or something close to it anyway, but that account was debatable since the source had been some drunk knock-up from ages ago) and was known as the 'wild hyena' of the group. Whereas Bianchi and Rossi were known for being brash, 'kick-you-in-the-balls-'till-you-cry-for-mommy-'Godfather' archetypes (that is, if they were to be thrown in the world of fiction), Becks was more of the suave, in-charge, pushing girls up against any surface or unto any surface he could find type. And he was loud. In everything. And that means _everything_. Right . . .

Daniel was somewhere in the middle of that spectrum.

"Grubstick and Owens."

Daniel and Vincent's heads snapped up in mild confusion and shocked amusement. A nerdy looking bespectacled boy with a lean frame, strode along leisurely to join the slowly growing group of students in his section. Owens, or really Aidan Owens, the boy in question (who was also Connor's paternal half-brother) with golden-blond curls looking like some effeminate man-boy straight out of a Da Vinci painting, managed to cover up his scoff and turned it into something in between a wheeze and a hacking couch. Grubstick looked on with concern before Aidan waved him off politely and smiled at him. Forcefully.

Daniel snickered at them, ". . . That should be interesting. He's not even going to make it through two weeks in here."

"Oh man this is going to be too good," Bianchi chuckled, suddenly beckoning him to follow the female guard through the newly opened double doors.

"Hey, wait, where are we going?" Daniel asked because gods he hadn't been paying attention, it wasn't entirely his fault that he had such an abnormally low attention span. He glanced back down at the stretch of stairs they had left behind, seemingly twirling into nothingness as they continued their ascent. They passed by paintings of past headmasters: some old, some wrinkly, some tired-looking, some beautiful (the women, mostly), but all of them looking extremely astute with a proper air of matured sophistication in their softly painted visages.

"Gods, yo, it's like you were stuck up in nerdy-Harry Potta' land ova' there," Bianchi's thick Brooklyn accent broke into Daniel's meandering thoughts, allowing him to settle himself properly. Yup, he was back to the world of the present.

"Yeah, I just, god man Cross is stuck with that kid, all he needs is a lightning-shaped scar and _hello _Harry Potter casting team!" Daniel exclaimed, bursting into a fit of mirthful laughter. Vincent tearfully cracked up which drew the attention of a few peeved students. All it took was the middle fingers of both boys to garner the begrudgingly controlled respect and submission of the students, to get them to turn away. Yup, being a Meade and Bianchi had never felt better. Daniel was actually pretty happy until the female guard turned around and started speaking again in her posh English accent.

"Alright you strapping young men, we're going to be showing you where your dormitories are situated, where you'll be able to do your studying, research and the like oh and also . . . ," she started to quickly walk backwards in a relaxed manner as if she'd walked through these hallways in that manner all the time (Daniel was starting to think that she probably did).

". . . your gymnasium-," at the delighted collective gasp (with the exception of the Tron-obsessed and Harry Potter-freakazoid squad of the group) of her temporary gathering of new arrivals, the guide beamed brightly and declared, "let's start with that first, shall we?"

" . . . and did I mention that we'll be meeting with the girls in a few minutes to proceed down to the Great Hall where you'll formally meet your headmaster during dinner?" The sudden blurred flash of Betty's face swam in Daniel's vision, a slight gleam of braces and semi-straight veneers, and an inner-city styled attitude to match, managed to irritate him enough to make him grit his teeth. Screw his life.

Dorms and Things . . . and the Orientation Process Begins . . .

After the girls had their fair share of 'oohing' and 'awwing' over everything, the tour guide announced that they would regroup with the boys to head to the Great Hall to take their first meals there and meet the head-master. An uneasiness hung about the air as the girls shuffled nervously, squawking and parroting back the messages to others that had somehow managed to wander off further along the gigantic wing. With its vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers and exquisite Renaissance paintings, it was a beautiful room to behold. Betty had to teach herself how to breathe again before Amanda hissed that they were leaving in a few minutes to meet up with the boys and Betty cringed. She'd have to see Hefner 2.0 himself again and resist the urge to get all Queens-style over his pretty face. Freaking annoying brat . . .

Twenty minutes later, the girls reassembled completely with the boys and they were all calmed down (somewhat) in order to proceed down to the Great Hall by way of two sets of spiral wrought iron staircases. It seemed to take forever and within that time, Betty managed to brush against who else but the Playboy extraordinaire himself a numerous amount of times. First it was a cuff-link, then her leg would brush briefly against his pant leg to which he would glance over at her in bewilderment.

"Is there _any _particular reason why you're staring at me?" Betty barely grounded out, ignoring a warning glance from Amanda entirely, who managed to lock arms with Marc. He was way too busy with looking longingly at Christina (he was still a flaming homo) almost every chance he could get to notice his new walking buddy.

"_No_, is there any reason as to why you insist on being such a class A+ bitch?" Daniel spat out in an acidic tone.

"Only because I'm seeing a guy who thinks he's so hot staring daggers at me for no reason!"

"Well if a certain Little-Miss-'Ooh Look at me I'm from Queens and I'm SO Gangster'-girl would learn to keep her mouth shut, then maybe I _wouldn't_ feel compelled to stare "daggers at her"," he even had the nerve to make air quotes with his fingers and Betty just about had it with him, before Christina managed to quell her pulsing agitation and rage down to a somewhat manageable point . . . barely. She was about to rip him a new one.

"Maybe I should just staple your mouth shut or better yet," she decided to throw in a serious ego-damaging (it was _so_ irreparable) insult here that she'd overheard from Hilda once, bless her inner bitchy soul.

". . .maybe," she lowered her voice here, almost whispering seductively into his ear. At this point the whole entire student body had hushed to the point of complete cringe-worthy silence. You could hear a pin drop in the distance at the moment.

". . . Maybe _what_? You're gonna threaten me with castration? Ha, you're not the first to do it. Please, spare me the death threats, we all know that you're not going to do a damn thing!"

"Really?! Well let me tell you something _Daniel Meade_!" Her voice became syrupy sweet as she bit out his name, like those terrible bitchy antagonistic female villains from those soap opera and telenovelas she used to watch at the age of twelve, she managed to see a dangerous gleam flash in his Caribbean-sea-blue eyes before an overpowering voice full of decades of wisdom rang out above their increasingly audible voices.

"Okay, I believe that, _that _is quite enough! Normally I would reprimand you but . . . as it is your first time ever setting foot in these halls, I will just warn you . . . don't you ever resort to petty childish arguments, it's disrespectful, ludicrous, and downright degrading. With that said, I believe an introduction is in order." The whole student body were too shocked to speak and the tour guides were secretly thankful that their headmaster had arrived in a timely fashion to intervene. The girl in glasses looked like she was ready to pounce on that rich kid and show him some real Queens attitude . . . with her fists. Appearance could be damn right deceiving.

"I am your head-master, Lucius Chancellor and I will be presiding over the formal events that will be taking place during your stay here. Any balls, feasts, trips, et-cetera will be overseen by me. If you are to break any of the rules that have been outline in your handbooks, which I'm sure you've all received along with your acceptance letter, than you will deal with _me_. Ms Suarez and Mr. Meade you will be visiting me in my office after the feast, don't be late," somehow his warm smile reminded Betty of her father's smiles and it left her stomach unsettled with roiling bile. She felt horribly guilty but Daniel was a jerk and he was asking for it. And yet still, she should've had more tact now, all of the other girls were snickering and making snide comments about her now: how she probably had anger issues or that she was probably cuckoo for cocoa puffs. At least Amanda and Christina knew that it wasn't true and _she_, herself, knew that it was untrue. Daniel just knew how to rub her the wrong way.

Everything went smoothly after that but that was mostly because Amanda, Christina and even Marc took to watching the volatile Betty like a hawk, sandwiching her so that she wouldn't try to kill Daniel whenever she so much as looked at him.

"Betty, not to sound like a lesbo or anything but that was really hot, like if I _were _a lesbo, I'd so get turned on by that," Amanda gushed and Betty knew that it was the closest thing she'd get to a, 'that was pretty darn awesome' from Amanda. Hey, it was better than nothing. Although the thought of Amanda looming over her bed, leering at her with the intent of . . . well doing whatever it was that 'lesbos' did was a tad scary.

"Well, I'm kinda glad that you're a heterosexual then," Betty replied as Amanda rolled her eyes at her.

"Seconded." Christina chirped in, trying to move away from Marc who was attempting to sniff her hair. Talk about creepy.

"Oh come on babe don't be like tha, you know you _love _me." Amanda and Betty shared a look then and decided that it was futile to try and open Marc's eyes to obvious gayness. They were led into a vast dining room that had long rosewood tables stretching across from one half of the room to the next. Thirty chairs or more lined either side of the six tables and the vast Monticello windows were covered by gauzy burgundy floor-length drapes. Goblets of assorted wines for the teachers were set out on trays and passed around to the seated faculty. Betty felt like she was on a Harry Potter set, she felt like Hermione, chattering with her own personal versions of Gryffindor female schoolmates.

The servers who were as stuffy as the girls garbed in Prada-brand school uniforms were, rattled off a list of entrees, main courses, and appetizers to one set (meaning at least a group of ten girls or boys for each server) of students. Betty chose foie gras with some calamari and she finished it off with a slice of tiramisu. Christina opted for scalloped au gratin potatoes and braised lamb with a slice of black forest cake. Amanda, who was on some self professed low carb diet, to which Betty and Christina chortled and rolled their eyes at her (she was slim as it was already, the hell did she need more of an excuse to go puke up her dinner for?), got a small portion of sushi rolls with some sticky rice.

"You know, Meade isn't _that _bad," Amanda started, earning a glare from Betty who stabbed her foie gras with an unnecessary amount of force, so that some of the sauce splattered on Marc's face.

"Oh I'm so sorry, so sorry, I just . . . god, let me get that for you," she sputtered embarrassed, using a gold napkin to wipe some of the thick sauce off of his cheek.

"Thank you Betty, _thanks_," he bit out forcefully, blinking rapidly as to get the sauce from his eyes as he speared an asparagus with his fork.

"I actually have to agree with Betty, that guy can be a total douche sometimes, although he's not so . . . bad looking," Marc said, suddenly going into a coughing fit as if it would pain him to admit that a member of the same sex was undoubtedly attractive. Not that Betty cared about Daniel's looks, she'd seen guys like him: Brad Pitt, George Clooney, on TV before. He was just another Jake Gyllenhaal, surprisingly unimportant and 100% douche-bag-certified.

"Love, you have every righ' to be pissed o' at him." Christina replied, declining an offer from Marc to eat some of the asparagus he'd offered her on his fork.

"Oh _love,_" he tried to teasingly replicate her Scottish brogue to no avail, as he sipped his glass of iced water, simultaneously squeezing some lemon juice into it, ". . . do you want to try a piece of my poached salmon?" He finished huskily and Betty could've sworn she'd seen Christina's cheeks flush scarlet. Okay, maybe it was time for her to click her Mary Jane's together and recite 'there's no place like home, there's no place like home' because was her _straight_ friend falling for her new _gay _friend? What was this the Twilight Zone?!

"No thank you dearie, I've quite enough to finish as it is," There was some more idle chatter after that and eventually (to Amanda's merriment and Betty's awe) Christina allowed Marc to feed her a few baby asparagus, though she _insisted _that it was just due to her politeness. Eventually the plates, empty glasses, silverware and china (they had an array of imported and local teas to choose from as an optional beverage choice) werecleared away. Eventually Betty glared over at Daniel and they simultaneously rose from their chairs, straightening out their outfits, smoothing out wrinkles and the like before being watched like hawks by their peers as they walked over to the guards to be escorted to the headmaster's office.

Author's Notes: As always, reviews and comments are appreciated. ^^


	6. Episode Five

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy: Tales of a Misfit Teen**

DISCLAIMER: You already know the deal by now, folks . . . Lol.

Author's Notes: I want to take the time to thank all of my reviewers, you guys have been so sweet and faithful to this story. Without your support, I wouldn't have been able to push this story in the set direction that it's now chugging along, so thank you. This is dedicated to all of you . . .

So . . . the Detty goodness that you've all been asking for is underway and ooh? What's that? A plot line involving the Van Burens is amidst folks. Marcelle and Giselle aren't just there solely as another one of the Meade boys' conquests. But that'll be in the next installment--the Van Buren drama, I mean. This is purely focused on Detty and their awkwardness, because I couldn't resist it. ^^

Without further ado . . .

Episode Five: She's a Man Eater, Makes You Work Hard . . . 

After being led through a series of ornate rosewood doors, Betty and Daniel fought hard not to steal steely-eyed glances at each other. Occasionally (because how could you _not _look at such an insufferable bastard, like _really_?!) Betty would give in to the impulses and she would gaze at him, not in a longing _Gone With the Wind_-esque way, oh no, but more in a murderous, intolerable almost hateful sort of way. The guards that had wordlessly offered to escort them, just by turning on their heels and indicating that they should be followed, made no attempts to break up the beginnings of what looked like would be another confrontation.

But that was probably because they had arrived at the head master's office.

An impressive oval portrait of a phoenix surrounded by cerulean-tinted flames, threatening to swallow the sky it soared above, hung above the double doors.

And as if they had_ no _idea that he would be coming out at any minute, one of the guards felt the need to announce that: "The head master will be seeing you shortly."

Daniel felt like telling Captain that they were _quite _aware of that and would he kindly stop making such obvious statements!

With that the guards took their assigned places by either side of the elaborate marble archway they had just strolled through.

"Well, won't this just be a walk in the park," Daniel gruffly hissed. Betty raised an eyebrow at his comment but made no move to speak. She was suddenly tired of arguing with him and found it to be sort of pointless. It wasn't like she was making her stay at the academy any _more _enjoyable by feuding with him; and perhaps, the head master would try to shed some light on that . . .? Hopefully . . .?

Yup, she was definitely having a moment of clarity. Thank goodness . . .

Suddenly like Betty's unvoiced prayers were about to be answered, the doors instantly swung open with a long groaning creak. It sounded as if the doors themselves had been tortured or something, or maybe that was just the sound of a long overdue oiling. In either case it served to fuel the already burgeoning sense of tension swirling in the air.

The head master reappeared, garbed in a long formal black robe that draped over his slim body in large folds. He looked, honestly, very regal and intimidating because he was smiling so darn much.

"Ah, welcome, thank you I believe that will be enough Sebastian and Leonard; you may go," he smiled warmly at his guards and with a graceful sweep of his hand, dismissed them. Betty swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat before he beckoned them to come into his office.

For all intents and purposes, it was a luxurious office with a very unique style that spoke of the head master's interests: a large detailed globe stood at the very far left corner of the room. A large bookcase was lined with books: some seemingly ancient, others layered with thick coatings of dust and still some appearing to be more recent than others.

A wide desk divided the head master's grand chair from two smaller ones that were spaced apart about a few inches from each other. Having taken his seat, he gestured for them to sit and so they did. Betty held her breath anxiously, waiting for him to say something, when he did speak they were both shocked about the words spilling out of his mouth.

"Would you prefer to be called Ms Suarez and Mr. Meade respectively or are those titles too formal for you?"

Did he not _just _see them practically rearing to rip each one's head off only a few moments ago? Shouldn't he be sentencing them to some form of detention, making them write one hundred lines of a possibly useless phrase over and _over _again? Why was he so calm in trying to rectify and also possibly dissuade them from the situation? They hated each other, or at least Betty believed that they were skirting the edge of 'I-really-can't-stand-you'-itis. Terrible affliction, that was. Gina Gambarro and Hilda Suarez suffered from that chronically, so they should know.

"Um . . . I guess uh that Daniel--erm that _just _Daniel is fine, erm, sir." Daniel choked out, his sudden bravado from earlier being effectively erased as soon as his ocean-blue eyes met the sparkling warmth of the head master. The old man was growing on him . . . Betty could tell.

After a few tense moments, in which Betty found the swirled patina of the wood to be extremely pleasing to her eye, she finally spoke.

"A-and Betty will be fine for me too, head master, I mean sir, um yeah." She smiled sheepishly and Daniel chuckled at her. Betty smiled back at him and relief (she guessed) washed over her slowly in pleasant waves. It was as if some weight had lifted off of her shoulders. Maybe he wasn't such a pompous jerk after all, maybe it was all a facade . . .

A part of her--a really, really small part of her hoped that underneath that womanizing exterior was a genuine honest man that had just happened to stray from the right path. But then again, all of her hopeful thinking could be dead in the water, shot to high hell, whatever.

"Right, Betty and Daniel it is then," the head master smirked while distractedly rifling through a stack of papers. By the looks of it, they were assorted manila folders, student files, health records, past attendance records and the like. Betty wasn't at all nervous about whether he looked through hers, she'd had a pretty squeaky clean record for everything thus far.

"Um, if you don't mind me asking sir, um . . . why did you uh decide to meet with us privately?" Betty couldn't drive away the sudden rush of curiosity that had forced its way into her mind. A list of questions were running across her mind at high-speed such as, if Daniel and her would ever become acquaintances or maybe even . . . friends?

The head master laughed in a good-natured way before he continued on, regarding them with a sudden serious look in his glacial eyes. All traces of mirth were gone, as if some light switch in them had been flicked off. What ever he was about to say was serious.

"Ha, well I can't keep you two out of the dark forever. Originally, I wasn't going to tell you at all but . . . since you've asked so nicely . . . I've decided to place you in the same courses together." He paused here, allowing the recent news to settle with them. Betty looked over at Daniel, worrying her lip with her teeth. Daniel thought that if she kept gnawing it off like some crazed cannibal then she'd soon have no more lips. He shrugged helplessly at her, attempting a goofy grin.

"Uh I um heard that correctly, r-right? You want _me _to work with _her _in _EVERY _class together?" Daniel sputtered. He was actually forcing them to get along. Well in retrospect, their feuding was sort of childish and irrational. There really wasn't much of a point holding any unexplained feelings of resentment towards her. For Saint Michael's sake, she wasn't even _from _Manhattan. She'd never even been around socialites before. She was virginal in that sense.

The head master just nodded before he rubbed his chin in indifference, focusing all of his attention on a particularly interesting document. Daniel sighed and hung his head down, raking a hand through his heavily gelled hair in deep thought. After a few moments of silent contemplation, Daniel finally threw his hands up in defeat.

"Hopefully I won't bite your head off then . . .?" Daniel smiled sheepishly.

"I'd have it no other way, Mr. Meade." Betty smiled genuinely at him and they shook on it. His hand was smooth and his grip strong, sure and firm. That was normally the mark of a good and effective leader; at least that's what Ignacio had told Betty at one point when she was a wee tot still. She'd just garbled happily in reply and spat up her food on him.

"Right, well I think that it's starting to settle now. In any case, I hope you've learned something valuable from this. You gain nothing from arguing however you will make great strides if you work to help each other succeed. Sometimes the best of friends start out as the greatest of enemies. Take that with you . . . you're free to go." With that the head master saw them out, shook their hands with his weathered veined one and wished them to have a good rest and a productive day in the morning.

Daniel offered to walk Betty back to her dormitory until she reminded him that boys weren't allowed to venture into the East Wing.

"It says so in the handbook, you know." She smiled, completely amiable and growing surer of her budding sense of comfort with him. Daniel chuckled lightly and rubbed the back of his head, suddenly nervous.

"Guess I'll just uh stop here then and um apologize, I owe you one after all."

Yeah he kind of did. He did call her a class A+ bitch and as much as she wouldn't readily admit it out loud, that did sting. She'd spent a good portion of the evening mulling over what would compel someone to call her bitchy. She wasn't bitchy, just sorely misunderstood and she didn't have the greatest handle on her temper but compared to Hilda she was practically angelic. Hilda once made a eighteen year old guy on the football team no less and wrestling team sob--as in actually break down in tears; case in point? Yeah, we think so.

"Yeah, I guess we both have an apology for each other in order."

"Right well um Betty . . . god I-ha, sorry I'm not so good with this emotional . . . stuff." Daniel grinned sheepishly again, but it came out more lopsided. Betty had to say that it was sort of cute but that was _it_. She had to admit that with his chiseled jaw, well defined cheekbones and those fitted suits, he was kind of a hottie. Still, she was never one for the model-hot factor in a guy. A quiet surety and an unassuming humble earnestness never ceased to win her over. Daniel still seemed to lack tho--wait, she didn't LIKE him!

Betty took the time of precious silence to wipe those thoughts from her head and chalked it up to nerves, that time of the month and lack of pain killers (cramps could be a bitch to deal with). Speaking of which, it was probably late, like somewhere around 10:00pm or so and they were on a strict schedule. They had to be roused from their sleep at approximately 5:30am and then they had to get ready for the day. Betty didn't want to start her first official day of schooling on the wrong foot by oversleeping. Maybe she could just cop out, politely tell him that they needed to sleep and make her getaway.

It'd also give her the chance to think about . . . _that _feeling. Ugh.

". . . Betty did you hear me?" Daniel wrinkled his brow in partial confusion and worry. He'd changed so much over the course of almost twenty four hours. It was amazing how he went from world-class jerk to sincere guilty young man caught up in a whirlwind of emotions.

"Oh sorry I was just thinking, could you repeat that quickly? It's kind of late." Betty informed him because one quick sideways glance at the grandfather clock tick-tocking away overhead confirmed that it was 10:15pm.

"Y-yeah sure I could that," Daniel loudly cleared his throat. Whether it was due to nervousness or because he really had something blocked up in there, Betty didn't know but she thought it was oddly endearing. It'd soon become something of a staple trademark for him, or one of his many idiosyncrasies at the very least.

". . . um I was just saying that my behavior was extremely unacceptable and that those words--I said them because I was frustrated over something completely unrelated to you. I didn't mean to uh offend you--erm it wasn't my intention. At all. So I'm um--I just wanted to say that I'm _really _sorry. I really am."

Betty looked up at him, because he was a full foot taller than her and saw something indescribably beautiful and touching in his eyes. She was SO not falling for him! Just, he had nice eyes that was all. He went on:

"I shouldn't have taken out my anger on you it's just sometimes I get so carried away and--and--"

"Daniel . . .," Betty tried, finally believing his apology to be sincere. Who could resist something as earnest as that when he was pouting heavily as if he'd just learned that his world was going to crash down in a plume of smoke in a matter of days? There was that and somehow the slight speech impediment (or just a nervous habit) made it all the more meaningful somehow. Then again, Betty had a shared penchant for stammering too like a nervous idiot when she was . . . well exactly that, nervous.

And gods, it was 10:36 already?!

" . . . gods I just screw up a lot. I mean I'm sure you know my parents, Bradford and Claire they uh, they own Meade Publications and they in turn manufacture _MODE _Magazine. You've probably read the issues before but yeah they always stress for me to be more productive and stuff and yeah I was just being a douche. I usually hurt people without thinking but seeing you in that office--I-I mean to say that _being _in that office with you made me--"

God could that boy ramble on and on and on like the freaking Energizer bunny. Betty started to wonder if he'd just shrink into the lovable fluffy fur ball, pounding away on those memorable set of drums at any minute. She barely suppressed a chuckle at the thought, gesturing for him to continue. He might as well finish his thought not as it was already pretty late.

"Daniel that's really sweet but--"

". . . and god I called you a _bitch_!I mean how could I do that?! How could you let me get away with that?! I mean I would've smacked myself, if I could! Honestly, I just--when I met you I was being unnecessarily shallow and yeah, you seem like a nice a person. I mean you were no walk in the park either but then I was being pretty ignorant, right?"

Betty nodded, glad that he had given himself enough space to finally suck in some air for once. She was afraid that the poor boy would turn blue and suddenly faint for lack of oxygen.

"About that I just wanted to--"

"But yeah just, I'm really sorry Betty and I swear I'll make it up to you somehow."

"Wow um, thanks." She was quite shocked at the intensity of his apology. It was as if he were proclaiming that she could ask for the whole world on a platter and he'd go through hell, earth and back again two times over just to get it for her. For all she knew he probably would do that and the scary thing was that they'd _just _met. He really did feel bad about it . . .

"I just wanted to apologize too Daniel. I think we both had our set stereotypes of each other. I thought you were snobby, you thought i had an attitude problem and that I was snobby too. I think that by clearing our heads, we really let go of a lot of weight and I honestly think that you're a lot better now than most people may give you credit for. I guess in time I'll see if we can be friends though or maybe," Betty suddenly had the greatest idea. She beamed, almost wanting to squee at the thought. The words of the headmaster resounded through her head then and she had to thank him, he gave them a well needed wake up call.

". . . We could start off by being friends now?" Daniel finished. Whoa, they were on the same wavelength? Cool.

"That's exactly what I was thinking." They both grinned stupidly at each other, her mouth was a set of glimmering metallic braces and his mouth was a set of pearly white veneers. Perfectly straight and unmarred by any sort of substances.

"Great, let's shake on it," okay this was getting scary, like Sixth Sense-type scary. Did Daniel have some sort of psychic connection to her brain that allowed him to trade thoughts with her and he just refused to admit it?

"Yeah, let's uh do that." Bety hesitantly shook his hand before pulling away a little too quickly.

Suddenly a small cough interrupted them and they were faced with an amused Christina.

"While I do like a lil' lovey-dovey action I gotta say tha' ya two do realize tha' it's close to 11 now, righ'?" Daniel glared at her, suppressing a light suffusion of pink to brighten his normally creamy cheeks.

"I was _just _about to go to bed actually . . . and your name would be . . .?"

"Her name's Christina McKinney, she's like another sister to me." Betty smiled.

"Oh hey Christina, I'm--"

"Oh I know who you are." Christina smirked ambiguously before she glanced over at Betty questioningly. Deciding that she was too tired to explain everything to Christina and Amanda (provided that she wasn't knocked out on her top bunk bed), Betty just mouthed that she'd tell her tomorrow.

"Right well I'll see you tomorrow then Betty. Good night and sleep well." Daniel smiled starting to back away slowly before rubbing the back of his head again (definite nervous habit).

"Yeah it was a good talk; I feel so much better, you have no idea. You sleep well too, Daniel. See you in the morning." For the first time Betty waved cheerfully to him and smiled, hoping to convey the amount of warmth she felt then. It felt indescribably good to go from being the worst of enemies to almost- not-quite-there-yet friends. It felt really good.

Author's Notes: So this is the first chapter to feature a straight-forward third-person perspective. We don't switch between Betty and Daniel at all here and it's not broken up into sections. That feature will return in the next installment though. I felt that this chapter would be better explain in a straightforward way and as you can tell, I tried to focus solely on Daniel and Betty. After all, they're coming to a slow crossroads now. They're still awkward because they fought with each other earlier so now they're acknowledging that maybe they were intrigued with each other all along but were too fearful and silly to admit it.

Arguing just seemed like the cool thing to do to them, I guess at the time. Lol. Oh and the awkwardness, there will be awkwardness galore because between Daniel's inability to express his feelings and Betty's general shyness--well it's bound to be tense and stuff which equals cuteness. God this is long, it's almost turning into a fic itself. Let me cut this short and just remind you to stick it out with me, tell me if you love it, hate it or can't live without it (kidding! . . . sort of ^^).

- TBP


	7. Episode Six

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy: Tales of a Misfit Teen**

DISCLAIMER: Iay oday ontway ehtay ahacratersay foay htisay ifcay, htatay siay llay oyay.

- My poor attempt to write in Pig Latin should be promptly disregarded. Just know that in English it reads as: 'I do not own the characters in this fic, that is all yo.'

And now we can move on to the ridiculously long Author's Notes . . . yay!

Author's Notes: So due to my struggling with sick spells and whatnot, I haven't had the chance to update until now. I apologize for that profusely. Now to make you all feel a lot better, I'll get right on with it!

Episode Six: We're Not in Wonderland Anymore, Betty . . .

The heroine, no wait wrong story, our _lead female_ rather (yes much better) was slumbering on her 100 feather-count pillow, wrapped in comforters and sheets of the finest imported silks and satins. However when Betty Suarez entered the realm of dreams, it almost always proved to be either turbulent, psychologically scarring, or just plain odd. At the moment, she was imagining (or rather her screwed up imagination was conjuring this up for _her_) that she was in some weird rendition of _Alice in Wonderland_. She was at the part where Alice or shall we say, Betty was falling, falling, falling down the long winded rabbit hole. Deeper and deeper she twisted, twirled, and somersaulted in midair as she free-fell watching as all manner of objects lazily drifted past her like scattered feathers: a grand piano, a ticking grandfather clock, a harp, a line of ducks, some geese, an abacus, and a pitcher of overturned lemonade (it curiously enough kept pouring out a steady trickle of the yellow drink in an endless stream) were among the random items. Betty had long since lost her voice so now she was forced to hold her tongue and she had already scraped off a good layer of the skin on her hands and stocking-clad knees (it was now torn to shreds) trying to grab a foothold or handhold on her descent. No use . . .

Suddenly there was a loud thunk and it took several minutes for Betty to register that it was she that had fallen so unceremoniously unto her arse. Stifling a very unladylike curse, Ali--we mean Betty took the time to survey her new surroundings and visibly gasp--

"Betty, wake up!"

"Earth to my little hot tamale, it's currently time to move off of your butt and get ready for a _glorious _day of school!" Amanda bit out her words through clenched teeth as she forcefully extracted Betty from the bed. She may have spent most of her time watching carbs and calories but it didn't mean that she lacked the corded muscles to show for it. That skinny body was viciously _lean _and powerful, like any male track athlete's. Betty grumbled unintelligibly about ". . . five more minutes, Papi" and ". . . did Daniel sneak into the consortium?" and (this one being the strangest one yet) " . . . oh so I'm in a huge room and it''s--bottle says 'Drink Me'."

"That's the reason for her weird dreams," Christina spoke from her position at the corner of their room. She had been fishing through Betty's things to retrive her wrinkled new uniform before discovering the dog-eared copy of Lewis Carrol's most famous work. The yellow paperback book seemed to smile at her and the Scottish girl chucked it at Betty's headboard in irritation. Fantasy could go stick its rainbow-colored arse hole into someone else's bedroom.

"Christy, watch where you're throwing stuff! Don't go all Amazon-She-Woman on Betty's bed, plus," Amanda's voice suddenly took on a cooing quality that made Christina scoff all the more, ". . . you'll disturb Halston." She fluttered over to her dog, all swishy yellow maxi dress, and strapped wedge sandals, before petting the practically hairless dog on its malformed head. Christina didn't see a damned attractive thing about the drooling mutt. It pissed, crapped, ate, and shed hair just like any other dog but it was just a lot harder to look at. If anything Amanda should've just--

"I'm up guys, I'm up . . ," Betty yawned, stretching like a lioness and running her fingers through her tangled bushy mane of ebony hair--from her position on the floor, half-draped by tangled sheets and comforters.

"Hilda called and you've been reading way too much of this . . . this crud." Christina held up the worn copy of Betty's beloved book (we did say that she was an avid bibliophile, right?) before the smaller girl plucked the book gingerly from her friend's hand and hugged it protectively against her chest. She loved that 'crud' of a book, thank you very much. Checking to see that her holographic bookmark was still tucked in between the leaves and running her fingers along the spine in a distracted loving manner that disturbed Christina and fascinated Amanda (who was _still _cooing over Halston), Betty shook herself out of her momentary stupor and thanked Christina for getting her uniform.

"God, before I go bonkers and start obssessin' over creepy pedophilic authors' books and weird hairless mutts, I think I'll go an' get me education. See you all later, Marc's offered to take me to class." Christina waved at them, picked up her dark auburn Louis Vuitton purse, shouldered her Steve Madden bag, and scurried out of the room.

"I resented that comment about Halston, he's NOT a mutt, he's a special beautiful dog! Betty," Amanda suddenly turned, bug-eyed, practically screaming 'DOG LOVER' at her preoccupied friend.

"Yeah?" Betty murmured. Couldn't Amanda see that this was sacred Betty-beautification-time? It took a whole lot of daring, resilience, diligence, and effort to go through this process. Betty couldn't afford distractions, she couldn't afford--

". . . is Halston ugly to you?" The quivering hairless dog was slobbering, little pink tongue lolling out, and blinking his beady watery eyes at her pitifully. 'Save me from this wretched girl from the Hamptons, she only wants to collar me and feed me filet mignon. I can't stomach that, SAVE ME!' he seemed to be screaming, if only dogs could talk.

"He's . . . different but in a good way . . . a very good way." Betty settled for that because it was partially the truth (he was actually weird but you couldn't tell your best friend that especially when she loved that dog as if it were a baby) but it was just enough of a lie to warm Amanda's itty-bitty heart. Amanda beamed, the compliment having taken its desired effect on her, before rambling on about Hilda and what she'd discussed with Christina.

". . . so like Hilda was like, "Oh my GOD, Daniel Meade is at your school! Betty almost got into a fight with him . . . did she win?" And of course Christina was all like, "Betty din't win, they got called into tha 'eadmaster's office and when they came back they were all grinning and apologizin' a million times like a bunch o' drugged up schoolkids. I swear I wanted to vomit, there was so much love in the air." She was kidding of course 'cause you know, Christina secretly loves that you and Daniel are getting along but you knew that right? So like anyway, what's the deal with her and Marc? She knows he's like 'hello world, I'm so gay, I make Issac Mizrahi cower in fear of my homosexual powah!" Amanda did something terribly traumatizing then and pumped her fist into the air. Betty couldn't help but think that somewhere, far, far, far away from the elaborate halls of the academy, a group of teens were striving to make that 'fist pump' thing the next trend. Somewhere . . . somehow . . .

"I don't know, I guess Christina's just doing Marc a favor by being nice to him; I doubt she really likes him," Amanda fixed her with a 'You're-on-drugs-right?' sort of look before Betty continued,"What else did Hilda say?"

They still had a good forty minutes until class but _some _people (aka Christina) still insisted on being fifty-two minutes early to class for some unknown reason.

". . . that you need to stop dawdling around and go out with Daniel soon."

"Ha," a brisk abrupt laugh, scathing and all at once mirthful rang out from the grain of the door. Betty was in the bathroom showering now. Damn her she was fast, that girl could scamper off like any common woodland critter _and _looked just as deceptively cute doing it too. Amanda loved her as if she were a surrogate cousin or sister or a strange mix of both . . . she didn't know or cared, she just did.

Thirty more minutes to go. Amanda was re-applying her mascara and checking to see if there were any smudges in her vanity's mirror by the corner farthest away from the beds. They'd gotten the complimentary suite so there was a bedroom with a single twin-sized bed (Christina's), a top and bottom bunk bed (Amanda's and Betty's), a cramped kitchenette, a small living area, and the bathroom which seemed to take up most of the space.

"Don't tell me, you're just gonna say that, 'Oh Daniel and I are only friends.'" Amanda mocked her, laughing at her own pathetic attempt at an imitation. Betty balked before forgetting that it was pointless because Amanda couldn't see her anyway and then stubbed her toe on the door of her shower. Stupid beautiful steel-gilded shower doors. Stupid amazingly genius architects and their stupid ideas to make stupid beautiful steel-gilded shower doors.

"That's because we are and why do I sound like Minnie Mouse?" Betty shouted, pausing to brush the food out of her teeth. Braces, as gleaming and glaringly obvious as they were, could be a pain in the butt to maintain all of the time. Due to being blessed with Ignacio's huge chompers, the Latina girl wasn't quite sure when she'd have the damn things taken off but if it meant a new set of pearly whites, then she'd have to wait. Not like you had much of a choice with screwed, tightened metal springs and wiring in your mouth.

"Hell if I know. OW, mother-loving mascara wand!" Amanda cursed, wiping the water from her eyes before getting rid of her smudge stain. Smiling at her handiwork, she waited for Betty to dress in record time. The smaller girl had topped off her outfit with mismatched polka dot socks and a messy assortment of clips, before they waltzed off to class.

"Would you at least consider it?" Amanda pleaded (because really, they would be such a great couple in her head, like Romeo and Juliet except they'd be hella smarter and less prone to committing suicide).

"Nope, we're just friends and that's that." Betty chewed on her bottom lip, a sign that she was internalizing that question and slowly turning it over this way and that like some horrible Rubiks Cube she was itching to solve. In that way, Amanda thought she was secretly Gregory House in disguise, always obsessing over the trivialities and unanswered questions--the 'what ifs' and 'maybes' of life. Ew, Amanda had gone philosophical there for a second and she'd scared herself. Whoa.

"Don't you have class with him now actually?"

". . . And you? Yeah." Betty chuckled as Amanda took note of her error, before looping her arm around her taller friend's one. Amanda smiled and leaned her head against Betty's shoulder and they continued their walk to first period.

And the Mad Hatter could've been . . . Johnny Depp . . .

"We're _just _friends!" Daniel exclaimed for the umpteenth time because apparently 'high intelligence quotient' was not listed as one of Vincent, Connor, and Gio's more impressive traits. Becks was too busy confirming the thirteenth number of some junior girl he'd managed to snag from the orientation banquet a few days before, to really give a rat's ass. But Daniel Weston Meade was frustrated, furious, agitated, angry, annoyed, just fed up beyond belief. All morning and night he'd had to sit through, sleep through (albeit uncomfortably because of the aforementioned teasing) a slew of relentless 'Betty and Daniel snoggin' in the tree . . . ' jokes. Elementary it was, admittedly, but still really? Betty had went from recent acquaintance to potential love interest number 54 in a matter of days. What the flying hell was his friends' problems? Did the copious amounts of making out, screwing, and alcohol permanently scramble the hell out of their brain cells?

"Says the guy who knows he secretly thinks about her when he's all alone . . .," Vincent began, chuckling at Daniel's narrowed blue eyes. He swore if Bianchi didn't take the god damned hint to _stop_ . . .

Daniel reached over to snatch his cologne from the top of his dresser and sprayed just a bit onto his hands before patting the space between his ears and the bottom of his neck. He glowered and held up a threatening finger at Gio, ". . . one word outta you, Rossi and I swear you won't have _any_ manhood to compensate for the shittiness of your personality!" It was a low blow but Rossi and everyone else would ultimately understand that when Daniel was pissed, he was liable to say some very stupid, hurtful, and usually untrue shit to make a point: Shut the hell up and keep it moving. Rossi didn't take the bait, stubborn ass.

"Come on, don't tell me you haven't thought about tapping that at least on--"

No one saw Daniel's hands fly out until they had effectively wrapped around the shorter Italian teen's neck and pinned him to the wall. There was a sickening thud and the sound of bone slightly snapping as his head collided against the wood. Vincent rose out of his chair, moving to stop Daniel from strangling the life out of Rossi. There was fire in those glacial blue eyes of his. The warning had turned into an imminent threatening danger. Potent and deadly. Uncharacteristically so unless you started spewing shit like Gio had. Gio tended to do that.

"Whoa, chill out man, take a deep breath and cal--"

"Don't tell me to _chill_ Vince, all of you have been hounding me to date Betty for days! I'm sick of it and don't you _dare _lower her to some common whore, she's a friend, not some slut! We're just friends, I don't like her like that and I never will, you got that?!" In the treacherous sea of red that was his anger and rage, Daniel somehow managed to conjure up the fuzziest grainy image of one Giselle Van Buren before he pressed his eyes shut and willed the white-hot stars away. He needed a good glass of Scotch, two aspirin, and Betty stat. Betty would know what to do, she would massage all of his anger away, soothe his problems with a horribly misplaced unintentional pun or brighten it up with one of his favorite raisin and cinnamon bagels from the dining hall. Betty was his friend, his confidante (or at least she would quickly become one at this rate), but a girlfriend?! No, it'd only been a few weeks since they'd arrived at the academy and besides Betty was Betty. She'd find someone equally as virtuous, generous, optimistic, and as light-hearted as her . . . someone with a beautiful soul.

He cared for her like a friend. The fact that Vincent, Gio, and Connor even, his best friend were sinking so low as to compare her to some charlatan, some simple whore, was just infuriating. Who the fuck were they? Seeing that Gio's vein's were popping from his neck in pale blue lines protruding faintly against the pallor of his sweat-slicked skin, Daniel released him in a disgusted hurry. He blindly put on the rest of his clothes, fumbling with his buttons and zipper, before straightening his tie and vest--the only decent thing he'd done since waking up. He tried to rub away the faint memory of Giselle in his bedroom, somehow conquering her in the bedroom, and managing to lure her away from Alex temporarily didn't satisfy him. He wanted Giselle as a whole person--her lazy smile, her tinkling laughter, her soft unassuming voice, her softness and determination and zeal. Daniel wanted her--genuinely and he would have her. But first, he needed to clear out the cluttered fuzziness of emotions swirling in his head.

"Hey Danny, where are you going?" Connor asked, concern dimming the light in his bright blue eyes.

"Yeah dude you just tried to choke the living daylights outta GIo, aren't you gonna at least apologize for that?!" Vincent was clearly bewildered, his eyes bugging out of his head in partial anger and partial bemusement.

'To go drink myself into a stupor. To go find Betty and drunkenly slur stupidly to her. To go and preserve what little dignity I have left . . . to tell myself how much of a low-life screw up I really am,' typical Meade behavior. Every Meade had his or her own dark habit, the one thing that they could cling unto like a lone log as they drifted endlessly in a torrential flooding downpour. For Daniel it was alcohol and sex, the alcohol addiction from his mother, the sex addiction from his father. No one needed to know that he was going to go on a desperate search, like a starved emaciated man, for his one true counselor and friend, Betty Suarez. So instead he kept it short and bitter:

"Out . . . , don't wait up for me, please."

At the befuddled looks on his friends' faces, Daniel just stalled, his hand resting lightly on the knob of the door leading out into the hallway.

". . . s-sorry I just need to clear my head . . . for a while. Erm, I'll be back soon."

'Sorry for trying to strangle your cousin, Vincent,' he quickly scratched that out as he shut the door with an audible click, effectively barring him from the sight of his friends' facial expressions: fear, wonderment, confusion, concern, all carried some intense range on the surface of their faces. He couldn't deal with that, so he did what any Meade would do.

He ran.

And subsequently the Mad Hatter and the 'girl' meet . . .

Betty detested English class, not only was it full of girls who were more interested about the state of their dads' bank accounts and the cutest single guy they could nab, but the teacher was boring. If there was a definition for the word 'boring' then he would clearly define it. Mr. Mac Pharlain was one of those teachers that tended to talk in a monotonous run-on, occasionally taking breath to sip gingerly from his thermos, and then go right into a long-winded segue about the 'joy of literature' and how 'Tolstoy was better than Wilde'.

As it was, Betty was far too busy trying to doodle away and jot down some notes. At least he talked in a slow droll tone so you could catch each syllable of every word that he enunciated. His faint Scottish accent didn't make the effect any more pleasing. In short his class was torture. And Betty could catch snippets of side conversations from Marcelle and her little posse: a beautiful Korean girl named Ji but everyone called her Julie because "it's like _so _much easier to pronounce", a half-Black, half-Indian girl called Abigail, and an English and French (though she likes to constantly throw in that she was "a quarter German on my _dad's_ side" as if you'd care) girl named Renee.

They were annoying: they constantly dished dirt or in other words trash talked every other girl in the school (and sometimes when one of them happened to be absent, the rest would gossip about _that _girl--yes, one of their own) and they scoffed derisively at you if you weren't "caught up with everyone in the 21st century. Betty was a constant target due to her as they put it, "questionable fashion sense: like you either dress in the dark, blindfolded for added effect, or you seriously grew up under a rock as a child." Yes, they were oh so charming.

". . . so Cross totally chucked a book at Grubstick's head this morning because like I dunno, he said that Grubstick kept reading a loud or something. But like I heard from Raphael, who heard from his cousin, who heard from his friend, who heard from this _other _friend ('kay get to the damned point, she might as well, since she had already disturbed Betty's note-taking time), who heard from their sister's boyfriend's friend's neighbor that he likes Betty." Ji or really Julia rambled on in her thick nasal voice.

Wait what?! Betty had been crushing on Henry for months. She'd rambled on and on and _on _about him until Christina would chuck pillows at her head, pleading her to stop, and Amanda would feign disinterest by pretending to talk to one of her 'cell phone bfs'.

". . . Okay first," Marcelle was cutting in. Betty could tell even if she was sitting like ten seats away from them, because Marcelle's voice had this slight childish mocking tone to it. Permanent annoying mocking tone. Like you wanted to bash your head into the chalkboard to stop your ears from bleeding.

". . . how the _hell _does that have _anything _to do with Cross's annoyance with Harry Potter's stunt double? And secondly, that is the _best_ thing you could've possibly found out! 'Cause bitches need to realize that Daniel Weston Meade is mine, " that was ultra-preppy spoiled girl code for, "I'm-crazy-and-if-you-don't-watch-out-I'll-go-all-Glenn-Close-in-_Fatal-Attraction_-crazy-over-your-ass!" Yes Marcelle was dead serious about that comment. Betty heard that loud and clear except there was one teeny weeny problem: She didn't like Daniel Meade like that! Sure they were friends, sure they hung out together at the dining hall, sure they studied in the Common Library together for upcoming tests and went over notes comparatively, and sure they cracked jokes about the 'rich bastards' but . . . they were just friends. They were slowly becoming closer over the weeks and days and whatnot of talking to each other but . . . nothing would evolve from that friendship--certainly not a romance.

But Henry liked her . . .

Betty fought the urge to blush. Hard. Because she liked him. A lot.

". . . and that is how Romeo and Juliet was written. So now," Mac Pharlain was droning on as if he'd love to do nothing more than curl up right on his mahogany desk and sleep the day away. His students wouldn't mind at all if he did that actually. Real effective lecturing method there. Yup. Betty certainly _loved _English 9 now.

". . . I'm going to be partnering you up in no particular order. You'll be assigned a certain number of pages to analyze and read. Then you will compose an essay on whether Hamlet is crazy or not. It'll be due next week. You'll want to research up on crazy people for evidence to support your claims. Realism and actual concrete evidence makes for a good thesis paper, right?"

"Right," everyone chorused as if they were the band of the dead. Lovely.

Betty could already see Daniel bursting into the classroom, flushed and heated from running too fast. He looked like he'd just avoided getting impaled by Freddy Kruger. Everything screeched to a slow murmur and then died away into silence.

"Mr. Meade, nice of you to finally join us." Mac Pharlain deadpanned, his thin mouth upturning in just the barest hints of a smile. That man was secretly C3P0 in disguise with just a lot less personality and a thicker Irish accent.

"Yeah sorry about that I had a bit of a problem," Daniel breathed out, ignoring the possessive gaze of Marcelle as he squeezed past her and moved over to Betty. Marcelle snorted in disgust before turning in a huff. Amanda stuck her tongue out at her. Abigail resisted the urge to make some catty remark about Amanda's "imitation Jimmy Choo's" which they_ so _weren't and Christina flipped the bird at Marcelle and her group to finally restore balance to the world. And then Marcelle's group just gaped like a school of fish just learning how to breathe underwater and make bubbles. Dumb-asses.

Mac Pharlain in that small window of time just shook his balding white head and started to read from his newly organized roster.

". . . Van Buren with McKinney."

"Son of a rat's arse!" Christina cursed before earning a raised silvery brow from Mac Pharlain. She grinned sheepishly, mumbled an apology, and glowered hatefully at Marcelle. The Queen B as in Bitch was only too happy to return the gesture before scooting her desk away from McKinney. Apparently neither girl was happy with the partnership.

". . . Grubstick and Suarez."

Betty looked up in surprise, almost biting her tongue, as she scrambled to stuff everything at once into her book-bag. Henry smiled and waved cheerfully at her. She knew that Marcelle was secretly somewhat happy that she wasn't with Daniel. No matter, she could find out what had bugged him this morning later. He didn't look very happy at all anyway, what with that permanent upside down smile on his face. Betty would fix that.

'What's wrong?' She mouthed to him after settling down next to Henry and resisting the urge to stare at the pale creaminess of his skin.

That boy was so beautiful. So damn smart and beautiful. Gah!

'I'll tell you later.' A hastily scrawled note landed on her desk and she smirked before writing: 'Marcelle wanted to partner up with you.'

A few minutes of a pencil scratching noisily through wooden grain and . . . 'To rape me no doubt. ;)'

'. . . With her devilish 'good looks'. Ew, I might puke, I just complimented her.' Her note floated gracefully onto his desk.

Note-passing never got old, no matter what century they were in. Thank god for notepads and pencils.

'Let me get you a doggy bag for that.'

'Nah, I'll just make sure it gets on her face.' Betty suppressed a childish chortle as she glanced up at Daniel. He was barely able to contain his laughter. He'd been paired up with Amanda who smiled at him and asked him how he was, that he didn't look too well. Betty overheard him say something about lack of sleep and Amanda just shrugged. Amanda turned to Betty and upon seeing Henry she just thumbed her up and mouthed: 'Go get that hot nerd!'

And Betty intended to . . . right after she swallowed down the fluttering butterflies and rising swirl of nausea in the pit of her stomach.

"Hey Betty, you excited about the project?" Henry asked, his cheeks flushing a light pink. He was wearing a grey fitted sweater with a 'System of a Down' logo printed on the front and some standard jeans. No brand. The Chuck Taylor's were a nice touch though, although they looked to be worn with age. Still, he was beautiful even with his beat up three-year-old converses.

"Pretty much yeah, are you?"

"Yeah, I'm . . . I'm glad I got to be partnered up with you."

He was glad! Oh god, Betty wanted to actually hug Julia right now and then subsequently wipe the germs right back onto her afterward. She didn't want to get infected with her snobbishness. Snobbishness was ugly and it didn't make Henry Grubsticks like you. Apparently clumsiness and an unnatural appreciation for literature did though.

"Yeah me-me too."

"So how are we going to do this?" They both blurted out at the same time and Christina--Betty could feel Christina rolling her eyes in mock annoyance from ten seats away. Betty and Henry chuckled and it was the beginning of a beautiful--something . . . Betty wasn't sure what yet.

"The library, it's quiet and stuff and yeah we can go on the computer and get our Shakespeare on!" Betty grinned triumphantly.

"Yeah, that sounds like a great idea . . .actually," Henry stuttered nervously and smiled shyly at her before he closed his notebook with a snap. The bell rang from across the courtyard, indicating that class was dismissed. Everyone let out a collective breath of air and Betty for once--didn't really dislike Mac Pharlain. He was pretty cool--at least he'd partnered her up with her crush. He was probably a lot sharper than he looked. She could've sworn that she'd seen her English teacher wink at her and indicate his head towards Henry as she barely brushed past him on her way out. Or maybe it was wishful thinking--like that _Alice in Wonderland_ dream--maybe it was just nothing more than a dream . . .

Author's Comments: It's done! Yay! Mammoth chapter. I tell you, I just write as this stuff pops into my head. So the updates could be lightning-fast and sometimes (like in this case) you'll have to wait. But I'm hoping it was worth it, for you all! The story's picking up folks! Don't worry, you know how dense Daniel and Betty are, they'll eventually dump these potential love interests (and more, yes I'm following the guideline of the show in terms of relationships and stuff) and find each other. But it's high school, you know how it is, whether it's private or public, you're still going to have the 'who's-dating-who' and 'who-dumped-who' drama, it's customary to have a billion crushes at that age before settling on your true, true 'dream guy'. So try not to be mad, Detty fans, you know I'm with you guys all the way, so just try to stick it out and wait! And Benry fans, yeah, guess you'll appreciate this!


	8. Episode Seven

How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy

DISCLAIMER: Me no own the characters of Ugly Betty, ya dig? Good.

Author's Notes: I'm so sorry that I've abandoned all of my darling readers. Real life sprang up on me and as I type this, I'm still planning and categorizing what I'm going to do with what's shaping up to be my future. My future's really important, you know. This fic comes to a close sixth or—wait no it's tenth on my list of priorities: Myself, my family, my friends, school, possible future job, yada, yada. So you know how it is. Gotta get those A's and finish high school. You know how it is. You. Know. How. It. Is. Okay so your author's done ranting and raving and venting (same diff, I know) and she's ready to appease you all with a new installment. So I'm sure I don't have to type out a rhetorical question along the lines of: Are you ready?

'Cause I know that the answer is already a strong affirmative.

TBP

Episode Seven: No, No, No, No Don't Phunk With My Heart

The library, Betty mused offhandedly, was _supposed _to be a place of solitude, a place where bibliophiles such as herself could congregate and engross themselves into their respective books of interest. As it was when she decided to walk in and meet Henry at approximately twelve o' clock (he _had _told her twelve o' clock, hadn't he?), there was a massive congregation of preppy snobs sitting around gossiping about their supposed friends, frenemies, enemies, and their own family members. Abrasively. Very abrasively. It became distinctively clear to her that despite the tour guide's comments so many weeks ago, the Common Library on the contrary, was NOT a peaceful place for recreational reading and studying.

Someone needed to tell Paris Hilton's cousin and her flunkies to get the stepping.

Placing her armful of books on the surface of a cleared desk, Betty took her seat at the vacant chair and began to jot down a few notes on her notepad. She took the time to remind herself that her friends wouldn't arrive back at their dorm room until later on in the evening, sometime around four so it would give her ample time to charm—erm study, yes study (all good scholarly pupils did this, you see) with Henry. As Betty crossed the fifth line of quotes she'd copied from her photocopied version of her teacher's paperback edition, the massive pinewood double doors opened and Henry casually strode in. He fumbled with his messenger bag and scuffed the toe of one of his graphic-splashed converses on the side of the library receptionist's desk.

And he was so freaking adorable.

And Betty could hear the gagging sound of one Marcelle Van Buren approximately five tables away from where she was oh so comfortably situated. The thought made her brain almost leak out of her ears . Ugh. Couldn't the girl just stay out of earshot and eyesight for just one moment, one lovely millisecond of poor Betty's life? Was her sole purpose in life to stalk the very shadow of Betty, skirting closely at its every twist and turn? Betty shook her head and couldn't help but overhear (did those girls seriously know the definition of 'shut the hell up, it's a library' because Betty could certainly_ teach _them the meaning and boy would she be just _dying _to) the snippets of Marcelle's rant.

The girl was louder than a police siren.

" . . . Daniel's supposed to marry me, this is hardly fucking fair, Julia!" The queen bitch in question grumbled irately. Julia, like some washed up door mat just patted and fussed over Marcelle's hair. What the fuck? Was she some sort of attendant or lackey to the whiny little slut sitting directly across from her? Since when did Cruella DeVille have some two cents lackey? Betty was amazed at the pre-established pecking order here, and here she'd thought that Julia was _on _the same pedestal as Marcelle. Guess she wasn't . . .

"I mean . . .," Marcelle paused to sniff with an emphasized air of haughtiness and derision. She was _such _a bitch!

". . . my daddy and his daddy made it so, it says so on the business contract. Right. On. The. Dotted. Line." Her voice lowered to a venomous whisper as the girl stabbed her pen into a sheaf of loose leaf papers, leaving a heavy inky blotch right smack dab in the middle of them. Yup, so Marcelle was about a ten on the cuckoo for cocoa puffs scale. And Daniel was supposed to be practically shackled to her by the ankle for the rest of his life? Betty took one good look at the airbrushed foundation caked face of his would be bride and shook her head in shame.

And then Henry lightly tapped her on the shoulder and made her heart flutter up and up and up into her throat. God, if he kept doing simple things like that then she might have just died from cuteness overdose.

Who Ever Said That He Was Prince Charming?

Amanda filed her nails for the umpteenth time—well actually, if she were to keep track this would've been the twenty fourth time she'd done it in approximately the past five minutes and thirty eight seconds. But Amanda so wasn't counting. She was just spying on Christina and Marc giggling, Christina and Marc _cuddling _(but he was SO gay!), Christina and Marc whispering and snickering and pointing out terrible fashion crimes (because _how_ the hell did you live with yourself after wearing outdated mink like that?), and Christina and Marc just shaping up to be a crack-infested couple. They were so odd that Amanda was done trying to solve the personal Rubik's Cube known as "them."

She had to remind herself that Christina and Marc had ceased being separate entities as soon as the sly old dog known as had practically shoved them together by the hip (though the hip part was definitely all their doing).They were inseparable and it was one part disgusting and two parts fascinating and just plain mind-boggling. How the hell could you court someone that was so obviously ga--?

". . . Hey Amanda is anybody home?" Daniel grinned impishly and lightly rapped his knuckles against her forehead. Wincing because she had such delicate skin, especially after having like three cucumber peel facials, Amanda plastered on the most false and most forced smile she possibly could and gripped Daniel's hand in a constricting death grip. She hoped he lost circulation.

"One of my friends has drifted over to the dark side," Amanda explained through gritted teeth. And well really wasn't the rest of it self explanatory? Didn't the scene playing out right before Daniel's ocean-blue eyes speak for itself? Didn't the very inveterate, inexcusable fact that McKinney and St. James were playing their own f'ed up brand of nose-snuggling vs footsies just spill all of the cat innards out of the bag? Okay a less gory analogy would've sufficed on that one but still . . .

Still . . .was Amanda the ONLY one deeply disturbed to the point of biting her tongue until it almost bled, by the fact that her friend was falling for a gay guy? Least of all a gay guy who was heavily in d-e-n-i-a-l about his obvious gayness?

"Yeah so . . . I mean if they didn't have cookies then I could understand you—OW!" Daniel glowered at a satisfied Amanda and narrowed his eyes at the publicly unabashed pair of mismatched lovebirds. Daniel didn't linger around Marc St. James too much, partly because he feared that the overabundance of his Axe spray could end up injuring and possibly raping the very surface of his brain and sensory organs, BUT he had to admit—the dude looked straight up metro.

And then there was Betty. Because honestly, McKinney and her love problems were the least of Daniel's problems. His newly found confidant and best friend—(or what was shaping up to be his best friend and fast)she was his problem. Betty was the cheese to his macaroni or was it the macaroni to his cheese ? Oh whatever, she was damn important. So the younger Meade, like any older surrogate brother (not counting the ones that encouraged you to sleep around with passed out emaciated girls with over-sprayed hair)took it upon himself to keep his eyes on her and on her . . . love interest.

Grubstick was currently smiling away with his perfectly straight veneers flashing and his angular glasses gleaming in the direct hit of the dim fluorescent lighting. Betty smiled back just as cheesy so that her braces screamed metal and red bands. She was so pretty in that unusual way, so pretty in a mismatched uncoordinated and yet convivial and friendly way. Daniel wasn't sure if the Harry Potter twin could live up to the standards of his sunbeam of a friend.

". . . and so like I think we should use Act Three, what do you think Daniel? Oh my god you're not even paying attention!" Amanda chucked a rolled up wad of tissue paper at his head and Daniel smirked as he watched the flimsy paper stick to her hand. He was so glad that God invented mascara or at least the materials for people to make it. Amanda grumbled and used her other hand to swat feebly at him instead and the blunt part of her palm made direct contact with his cheek. A dull stinging sensation sparked across his skin and he cupped his reddening cheek in part embarrassment and part annoyance.

Fine he'd concentrate and do his damn work. Grubstick better not lay one pallid bony ass finger on his Betty's head though (since _when _was it okay for Daniel to get possessive of his freaking best friend?) or else he would go absolutely bat shit rich boy gone wild insane on his ass. He'd even speed dial up Connor and Becks if he had to. And if it was really absolutely necessary than he could tell them to phone the Rossi cousins and all hell would break loose, fix itself, and break over the world ten times over.

He could but then he figured that an unhappy Betty and a pulpy bloody mess of a Grubstick wouldn't be worth the trouble. There was also the matter of Henry's cousin . . . Marcelle. The girl was currently waving at him like some crazed Japanese fan girl vying for the attention of her favorite J-rocker in some scary stalker-esque sort of way. As much as Daniel hated to admit it, he was a bit peeved and hesitant to deal with someone who claimed to be the black version of Paris Hilton on crack. In a serious tone no matter.

Yeah he was better off sticking with just ignoring them and finishing his project. Amanda was ready to bludgeon him into whimpering submission with her binder if he didn't.

"Right Act Three has some great lines, I'll start searching for some on Google?"

"Yup that sounds like a total plan," Amanda was back to her bright bouncy self, telling him way too much information than Daniel preferred to hear, but washing his mind out with a good stinging dosage of relief all at the same time.

Po-Po-Poker Face, Po-Poker Face . . . 

"Wow Betty, you're a great writer," Henry complimented her and Suarez felt like she could just lift up into the heavens and never ever come back. The boy was so super sweet from his smile to the way it reached and crinkled the corner of his eyes to the way he examined his shoes like it was some long lost 6th grade Science project he'd just rediscovered. Betty knew that she wasn't in love, this was just a flooding surge of warmth and chemical imbalances, a great crash of hormones, and need. But still infatuation sure felt nice on the soul and on the mind. Henry had done a total number on her.

"Thanks but you know you're witty comments definitely make the piece even more whole than it already is," she smiled. It was Henry's turn for his cheeks to flush and his palms to get sweaty. Marcelle was retching in half happiness and half disgust as she knowingly spied on them from afar. Betty could feel her eyes pinning into the very back of their heads. Ugh.

"Oh don't say that, gosh Suarez. I mean it though, I mean you could even consider writing for the school literary journal."

Betty hadn't considered it. She'd almost forgotten that Mac Pharlain had mentioned the school paper during one of their lessons a few weeks back. It was apparently a well known paper, noted for its quality writing, its consistently well written and edited editorials, and heart-warming comic strips, and its organization. Such well formatted sections. Right, the thought of beating out issue after issue and editing article after article, staying up with only the aid of Christina and Amanda and some well needed Starbuck's to boost her stamina, made Betty almost froth at the mouth. She definitely had to consider it. Henry was a freaking genius. She loved THIS kid!

And she could overhear St. James and McKinney trash talking every man or woman or hermaphrodite (hey, there could be hermaphrodites roaming around the corridors too) that so much as gently brushed past them. It was their own mysterious and hilarious language of love. Henry and Betty were all furtive glances and stutters and lame jokes and Degrassi recaps and Fall Out Boy lip syncing. But St. James and McKinney were oddly like poetry in motion and oddly enough it was the more feminine of the two—Marc that held their stranger partnership together. And it wasn't just Betty that stopped her note taking or her awkward hand brushing with Henry to watch them; the whole gathering of students were gawking and whispering and sneaking curious glances at them.

They had become the new spectacle, the engrossing conversational piece, and the new subject of each and every topic circulating around the room on some invisible mess of telephone wires.

". . . did you see that? I wouldn't even roll out of bed wearing that. Oh noooo she looked like a hot mess, I mean it's like she slaughtered a tiger and draped it over her damn body and called it a dress. What the hell?" Marc exclaimed in open mouthed horror. He had the eerie ability to make blatantly obvious crude statements with such comical open mouthed obviousness and yet still not garner any sort of heated backlash from his victims. It was like the accused just inwardly swallowed their pride and had to acknowledge that his funny bluntness was the gospel of the fashion world. He'd really make a great Christian Sciriano one day or a wonderful Michael Kors. He'd _be_ the next Miachel Kors.

". . . oh no, all she needs is 'er personal Tarzan to come save 'er an' she'll be ready to start swingin' from the treetops and beltin' from her chest. Ohhhhh-oh-oh-oh me Jane! Oh oh me love Tarzan!" McKinney burst into wonderfully loud infectious laughter then. Her golden spun hair tousled in a lovely soft mane over her shoulders as she shook in abandoned amusement, it spilled over her in gleaming gold and Marc watched transfixed, smiling warmly at her. He just sat back, his thin little lips upturned, and his large bright eyes watching her with—dare Betty admit it—pure glowing love. And for that one moment when Christina stopped to gaze at him too, the whole library stopped: no more gossiping, no more whispering, teasing, threatening, bludgeoning (from Daniel and Amanda's table), grumbling, chuckling, stolen glances, or anything. It was dead, so dead that you could hear a pin clatter to the ground or a tree being chopped down in some random nameless forest.

Maybe they really were in love. And then Marc said it with all the seriousness that he could muster, the typical effeminately high sarcasm edge erased out of his voice, for a deeper almost sultry tone. Almost. The slightest girlishness was still there but it was acceptably metro.

"You're amazing McKinney." And then Christina just looked like she was spinning and spinning and falling and falling straight against his chest. And then sound erupted from everyone and everything and blew out into chaos.

Author's Notes: Shorter chapter here. I needed to leave it off because there's sooo much more to this than meets the eye. Yes you read that right, Christina fainted and yes Marc may JUST love her. Will he ever accept his gayness? Or will he just turn out to be an extremely straight metro that just loves McKinney for who she is? And what plan does Marcelle have up her sleeve? Will Henry and Betty become something more? And will Amanda ever stop bloody hitting Daniel in pseudo-sibling-esque physical abuse? Only time will tell, next on . . . How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy!

Hope you guys enjoyed it. Next installment will be longer fo' sho' to answer all of these unanswered questions and more. There's always more questions on top of questions for these things. So you know the deal: reviews and feedback are love. I will return the favor! XD

- TBP


	9. Episode Eight

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy: Tales of a Misfit Teen**

by - The Blearing Phoenix

DISCLAIMER: Betty and co. are the properties of Silvio Horta and his affiliates.

Author's Notes: I want to say "I'm sorry" or at the very least type it out to you all because I've abandoned you for months and months. I want you to bear with me: I had to finish up assignments, essays, study for the Finals, take the examinations, run around and return books, and basically tie all of the previously untied knots together. I'm back though with another installment so I won't keep you famished any longer. Let's get this show on the road, shall we? ^_^

Also thank God over and over again that he invented coffee, because this plus my chronic insomnia were the only things that fueled me to whip this chapter out. No icky pun intended.

Episode Eight: The Saltwater Room

It had been approximately one day, twenty four hours, one thousand four hundred and forty minutes, and eighty six thousand and four hundred seconds since Christina had faded away into the inky blackness of sleep. Betty had bitten her lips ten times in the past second and Marc had made his twenty-fifth pace in the left direction every 0.55 seconds. Amanda counted things out whenever she was apprehensive or just so scared that she worried about whether she would piss her pants or not. There were ten beds lined up against each wall of the infirmary, that was four walls, and there was only five-six inches of room for a doorway on the two adjacent walls facing Christina's bed.

Five other patients were resting up in the infirmary: three had come in complaining of terrible head pains, while the other two had fainted. Christina's case was termed as being "UNKNOWN" although Amanda had shaken the young blubbering idiot of a male nurse a good twenty times, specifically telling him that Christina had fainted due to light-headedness. There simply _wasn't_ enough oxygen being transported to her brain, uh-duuuh!

"Amanda, Christina will be fine. Maybe you should just go downstairs and get something to eat. You look pale," Betty frowned. She was trying extremely hard not to scream from Christina's dangerously tight grip. The sick girl was grasping her hand with every last bit of her strength. Geez, even when she was suffering from oxygen loss and deep wheezing, she could STILL manage to crush her loved one's bones. Betty gritted her teeth and threw a quick apologetic glance over her shoulder at Amanda before calling Daniel in.

"Get her out of here, tell her everything will be fine, Dan."

"But . . .," and Daniel took his sweet time letting his eyes flit over to the still form of Christina's body. Well, she was still, save for her labored breathing. She was very much alive but she just wasn't conscious or awake rather, to do much of anything. And that sucked. A lot. Mainly because, Betty was at a loss without her childhood friend and Marc kept muttering that it was his "fault" over and over again. Daniel was driven mad due to that fact and threatened to staple the poor boy's mouth shut unless he quit it.

"But I should've never said a darn thing about loving her, I mean, had I known that she would've fainted I would've shut up." Marc, amazingly androgynous, possibly gay Marc, looked like he was about to weep into the pillows like a damsel in distress finally fed up with everything. Betty wanted nothing more than to just go over and hug him to her chest like the scared little thing he was. He looked as pitiful as they all felt at that moment.

"And if you don't shut up right now, then I'll gladly do it for you . . . with my fist."

Daniel was really, really cranky and a cranky Daniel was not the sort of person to cross paths with. The nurse saved them all the trouble of having to stare at Christina's eyelids (that just wouldn't flutter open so they could see her beautiful clear eyes again), by shooing them off to the dining hall downstairs.

"You guys need to get some coffee in your system," a spunky black nurse from the South chuckled mirthfully.

Daniel bit back a groan and just nodded appreciatively.

"Thanks for putting up with us."

"Ditto," Marc smiled cheekily, and had he not resembled a racoon with his dark puffy eyes, then Betty might've called him cute. At the moment though, he looked, as she was positive all of them probably did, absolutely hideous.

"No problem sugar, now go on outta here. We'll call you when she wakes up," and with that the nurse drew the curtains back with an air of finality. 'When' was such a hopeful word, such a definitive, and final word; it meant that Christina would get out of this mess. No ifs and buts about it. Mr. and Mrs. McKinney could rest easier knowing that their daughter would be a-okay.

"Ugh, finally I can get some beauty sleep, I probably look like Lindsay Lohan pre-rehab treatment." Amanda groaned. Betty and the gang were far too weary to even muster up the energy to chuckle so they just bolted downstairs to the kitchens.

As it was, since Christina had been in a deep coma for the past week or so, due to lack of proper oxygen supply, and the still recurring aftereffects of shock; Betty hadn't been able to really meet up with the wonderful, amazing, and oh-so beautiful, Henry Grubstick to work on their project. Henry had to toughen it out alone but he'd recently sent her a text message, expressing his regret about their inability to work together, and that he hoped Christina made a speedy recovery. Betty had squealed for five minutes after that until Amanda had chucked her nail polish at her head.

Oh well.

"What'll ya guys be 'avin' ta'day?" a young Scottish cook with sandy blond hair popped his head in the doorway, scaring Amanda half to death, and earning a skin-crawling death glare from Daniel. Yup, a coffee-less Meade was an unhappy Meade. Betty patted his arm sympathetically and he rested his head against her shoulder. _It was purely because they were tired_, Betty's mind shouted at her, yup there was nothing romantically implied by that simple gesture _at all_; and she _wasn't_ getting feverish just thinking about how good his scratchy three-day-old stubble felt against her arm and-

"Betty, my God, what the hell is going on in your brain? Are you having a fiesta in there without us? The man asked you if you wanted anything?" Marc cried, exasperated. Amanda was far too busy checking her reflection in her compact mirror and becoming increasingly more mortified with what she saw to really care about Betty's little reveries.

"Oh yeah, um, sorry about that guys," Betty smiled sheepishly and the cook replied that it wasn't a problem at all. He was pretty low key really and he whipped up some of the tastiest creme brulees in the world. They loved him, well Betty did, Amanda just wanted to boink him senseless against the kitchen countertops. Her words, not Betty's or Christina's . . . Christina, darn, she needed to wake up soon.

". . . I'll just have a latte and some of your tiramisu."

"Make that two slices please," Amanda chirped up, having applied a fresh coat of mascara, blush, eyeliner, and lip gloss to her face in under five minutes. If there was an international fastest make up applier contest then she'd be the prime winner for it. Betty wondered amusedly, how the girl managed to look so flawless without poking her eye out or smearing lip gloss into her teeth.

"Is that two separate slices or-"

"No, both slices are just for me."

The cook, Alex was his name, just chuckled knowingly and said he'd be right out with their food.

Marc stared at Amanda, mystified, as she turned to face him with a questioning look on her face. Apparently, he had yet to learn that Amanda had the appetite of a famished wolf that hadn't eaten for years, and a stomach like an endless pouch.

"How the hell are you hungry, you just ate like five minutes ago?"

"Honey, just because I _look_ skinny, doesn't mean I eat like a skinny bitch."

And that was that.

It was true, while Betty and Marc had been clutching unto Christina's hand as if they'd feared it'd slip from their grasps forever and ever; Amanda had been eating herself sick in the kitchens. Betty didn't want to know if her gorgeous friend had also fulfilled her dream of boinking hot Scottish cook senselessly either, she'd rather like to keep her food in her stomach.

"So . . . Marc, are you feeling considerably better about the fact that it wasn't entirely your fault that Christina fainted or will I have to smack that sense into your head?" Daniel asked when the cook came back with their requests on hand.

"No, I think I've accepted that what happened was obviously out of my control. It's just . . . I meant what I said, you guys . . . _do _know that, right?"

. . . that he was gay as all hell, yes, Amanda knew that. She was still trying to convince Betty otherwise but apparently her optimistic eccentric friend staunchly refused to refute the claim that he was probably just straight or . . . bisexual. There was always that possibility lurking around the corner.

"Yeah we do," Daniel replied, spooning his vanilla frappuccino with disdain. Betty leaned closer to him and glanced over at him worriedly. For the past few days, they hadn't had a real chance to talk. Amigo to amiga or amis to amie or whatever. Betty was bad with foreign languages, like rip out your bleeding heart, and pull yourself out of your own misery, bad. Daniel was bothered by something and when he was bothered by something, he tended to sulk like a little ten year old boy, before he'd start downing every alcoholic beverage you could name, like a mad man. Hennessy, Jack Daniels, Pina coladas, mojitos, sex on the beach, Moet, Chardonnay, all of these were his friends and acquaintances, well besides his real human friends of course.

He nursed a wine bottle like a lover, Daniel did.

"What's wrong? Talk to me, Daniel." Betty bit her lower lip because he wasn't talking to her and friends were supposed to talk to each other and cry on each other's shoulders. They were supposed to reassure each other and be there for each other and all of that mushy crap. Daniel just smiled ruefully at her and sipped his coffee gingerly.

"Too hot," he mouthed with a practiced smile of sincerity. A fake one at that.

"You'll tell me later though . . . what's bothering you, I mean?" Betty asked in a softened whisper, not wanting the other two gossip whores to overhear.

"Of course," and then the conversation was closed and filed away mentally in both of their minds to deal with later. And so, after Amanda had plowed through her two slices of tiramisu as if the cake was going out of style and after Marc had almost cried himself silly, the four of them agreed to retire for the night. It was while Betty had started her trek back to the Girl's Dormitory with Daniel in tow behind her, that _it _had happened. Neither of them had planned for _it _to occur, although it was undeniable, that there was something different stirring in the air whenever they met up now. Something . . . indescribable, something more than just friendship, and, wait . . . NO, no, _no_ Betty had to stop thinking like that right now.

"Um, Betty, we need to talk," Daniel started, his voice lowering and rising in pitch like the swell of an ocean. He was palpably nervous, for what reason, Betty couldn't place. But, he was nervous nonetheless, which made her nervous; which in turn caused them to stumble backwards unto their asses on one of the stone benches near the landings of the winding staircases. They gazed everywhere _but_ at each other before Daniel's light cough cut through the pregnant heaviness of silence that filled the room, if the vastness of the Entranceway could be even called a room. It was more like the size of a football stadium honestly, but that was far from the teenagers' minds at this point.

No, what they were concerned about was far serious and oh, what the hell . . .

"Yeah, we do, so um, hey."

"Hey yourself." Daniel smiled; this was like how they used to be five weeks ago. Five weeks ago when Betty wasn't throwing herself unto Harry Potter-what's his face-geek-a-zoid. Five weeks ago when Daniel was far more concerned about Giselle, who at the moment, was probably playing tongue hockey with Beckett Scott. Five weeks ago when awkward silences didn't compose a good fifty percent of their friendship and they could turn the dumbest things into a joke and be total geeks with each other and be fine with it. But five weeks ago was so damn far away now, wasn't it?

"How's life?"

"It's . . . okay."

"No, Daniel . . . how's life, _really_?" And there was his Betty, his confidant, his everything. His best friend, his opposite. His good luck charm, rooting him on, cheering him on because she was his life's cheer leader, his number one supporter. Betty Suarez. She wanted to help him, always would help him, always _will _help him, promised to even, five freaking weeks ago; when he had come to her blabbering on about how he was certain that he didn't want to marry Marcelle and did she know that Marcelle was supposed to marry him? That it was bound and legally certified in ink on a contract drawn up between Mr. Tight Ass One and Mr/ Tight Ass Two also known as Mr. Van Buren and Mr. Meade? Yes, she had known because she'd overheard Marcelle screaming about it like the crazy brunette version of Paris Hilton, that she was.

And she'd help him. Betty would help him. So, at the very least he could come clean with everything, right? His mind screamed yes at him and so the very first words that flew out of Daniel's mouth was what came to his mind immediately.

"Life's not great honestly . . . you see," and he shifted here so that their knees bumped together and that was alright. Betty swallowed hard but still, the look in her eyes conveyed that this physical closeness was nothing, this was alright; that when they woke up tomorrow, they'd still like their respective crushes: Daniel would pine over Giselle, or maybe not . . . and Betty would drool over Grubstick. Right? Daniel wasn't so sure . . . anymore.

". . . you see, there's this girl and she's . . . _amazing_. She's funny, quirky, a little eccentric with her fashion sense, and it's funny . . . this girl, when I first met her, we really clashed."

Betty smiled, truly smiled; her braces gleamed in the sulphurous warm glow of the lamps overhead, and her thick dark hair pooled in liquid streams of chocolate over her shoulders. She was fucking gorgeous. How the hell had Daniel NOT noticed that about her again in the past five fucking weeks? God, he hoped that if Henry got with her, that he'd treat her like a Queen, or else Daniel would have to pummel his face into a mass of puzzle pieces.

"Keep going," she laughed. Her laughter was gold. Pure melodic bells and gold.

". . .and well she's my best friend. Like, I love her completely but, lately, I've been . . .," and then Daniel paused . . . panicked, really. He couldn't tell her that he was jealous of freaking Henry Grubstick, that cretin (thank God for Mr. Mac Pharlain), for wooing Betty and making her all googly-eyed and stupidly happy, drunk happy, beautifully stupidly drunk happy! That he wanted to spend every day with her and rob their friendship back, that he was a possessive sex-obsessed, booze-loving (God, he would marry alcohol if he could, honestly) fool. He couldn't tell her that. He couldn't confound and worry his poor little Betty, not when her best friend was fighting off the urge to sleep hour by hour in a miserable little infirmary room (well, actually it was huge and far from miserable with 24-hour care BUT still . . .).

". . .you've been what?" Darn it, why did she have to be so curious and carefully probing into anything. Amanda would so have a dirty joke handy right at that moment, Daniel swore it. As it was, Amanda was probably too busy comforting Marc and telling his inner diva to go shove it somewhere, all while beating back her own bouts of drowsiness.

"I've been . . . thinking about you and Henry."

"Oh? Ha, that's kind of sweet." Really it was, Daniel was concerned for her. Betty wanted to smile and give him a bear hug and she almost did too except she remembered how exhausted she was, so instead she just opted to let their shoulders bump togethe too. And this was alright as well. Perfectly fine.

"Yeah, I was just thinking about whether he'd treat you the way you should be treated and stuff." Like, Daniel should be the first one to talk about the proper treatment of a woman. Luckily, his Betty (he really needed to fucking stop doing that; she wasn't a possessive noun for Christ's sake) was humbled and not quick to reprimand someone on their hypocrisy or whatever. She'd keep her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth like a good saintly girl. So damn innocent.

"Oh, I think he would treat me well." And of course he would, he was Henry Grubstick. Virginal, intelligent, goal-oriented, driven, modest, beautiful Henry Asmodeus Grubstick. She'd learned his middle name about a day ago when he'd texted it to her. Shut up, they had been bored and she had opted to play the 'Question' game via text messaging. Needless to say, they had bonded slightly over it.

"I . . . _really _hope so, Betty."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that, he will. I know he will." So innocent. Such boundless optimism, such god damn hopefulness . . . it was so infectious and it was fucking 3 am in the bloody morning. And the lights overhead were washing the walls with a faint burnt sienna tint and it was amazing. Betty looked amazing. Daniel probably looked horrid because his russet hair was mussed up and his spiked tendrils were probably sticking up every which way like a hedgehog's spikes. Ugh.

"Betty, I mean . . . I really hope he does because if he doesn't . . ."

"He will," and she was back to smiling again, all white veneers, straightening out against metal braces and wiring and spacers. Braces. Metal braces that came to encompass Betty's unique beauty too, came to be apart of it, and embody it. Daniel leaned in and whether it was because of the effects of the caffiene-adrenaline pumping ice cold alertness into his whole entire body, making his synapses fire and reload, making his nerves twitch with impulsiveness; he wasn't sure. Betty leaned in simply because Daniel was leaning in and her brain was cruising on autopilot so everything else relating to rationality had decided to take a vacation.

And where was Marc? And where was Amanda? Were they asleep? Was everyone else asleep? Were the guards asleep? What type of school had guards that didn't rotate shifts? What if a thief came in and . . . and . . . and

"Are you sure?"

Daniel's lips were dangerously close to Betty's smooth softer ones. So close that he could see every little depression in her pillowed upper lip and in her pouty lower ones. He wanted to nip at them and pull them with his teeth. But instead he kissed her softly even though his brain was screaming at him with the intensity of a teenager who's just realized that they've done pot for the first time and they shouldn't have . . . in their parent's bathroom. What the hell, what the hell, whatthehell, what the hell? What. The. Hell?

They were kissing. Betty was kissing him back. Daniel could give two balls about the fact that it was chaste butterfly, vanilla-rated kisses, but they were _still_ kisses. His handshad moved purely of their own volition from his lap all the way up to gently cup her face, and he caressed the shell of her ear with his fingertips. And when Betty had softly moaned, pressing insistently against him and when a shrill shriek sounded from a very flabbergasted Marcelle (what the FUCK was she doing spying on them anyway? It was fucking 3 am in the mother fucking morning? Fucking weirdo), Betty pulled away, wiping away the remnants of their kiss along with her sudden absence.

Daniel sincerely felt bad and was thankful that he was able to recover from the two-second shock he'd just experienced. Until it hit him like a car crash to the head over and over again. He had just kissed Betty Suarez. Oh my god, he'd just kissed his best friend. Holy freaking God. Mother freaking Icarus and Energizer Bunny, he just placed his lips unto Betty's lips and they'd almost had tongue-sex and . . . just . . . his best friend . . . kissing . . . kissed. Kiss. What? What?

"What the hell was that?"

"I just . . . she . . . I mean . . . Marcelle, what are you even doing up?" Daniel managed to choke out.

Marcelle huffed angrily and strode over, wrenching a very shellshocked Betty away from Daniel with the strength of an enraged harpy. Her soft curls bounced around her little shoulders with every sharp intake of breath she made. Daniel was afraid that she'd breathe to death, if that was even possible, if she kept doing that.

"Forget about the fact that I'm fucking up, why the fuck were you kissing Fiona Shrek over there?"

Daniel resisted the urge to hit Marcelle. Hard. Only because his mother's voice was chiding him and because although he was a very angry Meade, Meade boys never smacked around girls. Ever. They just verbally wiped the floor with them.

"You fucking bitch, who the hell are you to call _my _friend a fucking ogre, you damn whore?" He whispered harshly, because really, he didn't want to attract any attention. Miraculously enough, only Marcelle's lackeys: Tweedledum's one through three managed to be lured in like bees to honey and Amanda and Marc came trudging down albeit grumpily. They were grumpy at least until they heard Daniel's verbal assault of doom.

" . . . there was no way in HELL, I'd ever willfully want to marry a manipulative, deceitful, possessive, jealous, cold-hearted, Machiavellan (again, bless Mac Pharlain's monotonous boring heart), insensitive, bitch like you. Our fathers must be blind, deaf, dumb, and stupid, no offense to Ms Keller up in the heavens, to have _ever _considered pairing us up as apart of some fucking stupid . . . piece of business venture!" And each venomously spat word was punctuated by the spit that he made sure strategically spattered across her face.

Marcelle wiped the angry spit from her face and glowered daggers at Betty, moving with all of the intention of murdering the poor horrified girl with her fists.

"Paris Hilton, you better back the fuck up." Marc hollered, shoving an astonished Marcelle back.

"Take a cue from St. James and make sure your little lackeys get the stepping too, sweetheart. We don't have time for whiny little bitches, m'kay?" Amanda tilted her head playfully but the murderous streak in her eyes was anything but.

"M-my friend's in the hospital and all you guys can think about are your reputations and _you_," Betty whirled on Marcelle because she honestly sick of the younger Van Buren sister. She was constantly meddling in Daniel's affairs and just being an overall annoying whiny little brat.

". . . you don't deserve Daniel at all and . . . and I hope you choke on a Prada heel." Amanda nodded appreciatively while Marc snorted mirthfully.

"We hope you accidentally trip over those monstrosities you call a kitten heel but that hasn't happened yet so eh . . .," Julia frowned and Amanda actually smacked her across the face with her purse. A red faced Julia chucked her heel at Amanda. Jimmy Choo's. Old, ugly, chunky yellow ones in Amanda's personal opinion too; at any rate, Julia narrowly avoided her because Amanda had ninja skills like that.

"Ha, how you like me now, bitch."

"I think," and everyone turned around to regard a very composed, effortlessly calmed, Mr. Lucien Chancellor with widened eyes, ". . . that you should all retire to your bedrooms immediately. I will address this outburst at promptly 8 am. Miss Lee, (Julia) Miss Noah (Abigail), Miss Tannen, Miss Van Buren . . . Kruger, Meade and Suarez, you will all report to see me at the crack of dawn which starts in . . .," he paused in his tirade to momentarily glance at his watch, " . . . oh-five hours. Enjoy the rest of your day."

With that he inclined his head and was gone in a swish of indigo robes and neatly trimmed white beard and long silver-streaked hair. Betty wanted to scream and melt into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West. God damn it.

**Author's Notes:** Yaaaay, I wrote this to La Roux's "Bulletproof." That song is so catchy and Elly Jackson's voice is so cute and she's equally cute even if she does regard herself as being "androgynous anyway." Oh yeah and I also wrote an even bigger chunk of this to a little known cool Japanese cat, Makoto's remixed "Time" featuring Clevelant Watkiss. This smooth jazzy number was remixed by Kyoto Jazz Massive. Awesome quality stuff. Check it if your into jazz. Anyway, I think this is personally some of my nicest work, not my best, 'cause I'm far too modest to call it that. I just think the craziness, which is a staple characteristic of this series, let's face it, is all abounds here. It's fast-paced yet slow burning at the right moments. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing this. Yay. I 3 caffiene a little too much. Oh God. Let me shut up now.

- The Blearing Phoenix 3


	10. Episode Nine

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy**

DISCLAIMER: Betty's not mine, Daniel sure as hell is fine but he ain't mine, they all belong to Silvio Horta and his crew. So you all better read this and review, thank you. :)

Author's Notes: It's been a loooooong time hasn't it? College orientation has come and gone; I've been running around buying things in preparation for that so I've hardly had the time to bat the evil plot bunnies away. Thankfully, my mind's decided to let me slip into my "just roll wit' it" sort of writing style. That's normally how I bang out so many chapters . . . I just roll with it. So let's see how this goes, enjoy the ride. ^_^

- TBP

Episode Nine: Why You Gotta Be So Complicated?

Mr. McKinney had swept in and out of the hospital ward more times than Betty was able to count. He must have sprouted at least five fresh new gray hairs on his balding head but she wasn't about to tell the distressed man that. Thankfully, her poor hot-as-hell partner, Henry was understanding enough to let some days slide and he informed that they required more time to plug some effort into their project. So here Betty was, cellular phone clutched in hand, rattling off like an Amanda clone on speed to an equally fretful Hilda.

". . . yes Hilda, no he's been here all day practically," a short pause filled the air then,". . . I'm NOT going to talk about what happened between _D_ and myself right now! No, they're still monitoring her BPM . . . for her heart rate, Hilda."

". . . Well do you know how long it's gonna take until she wakes up? I mean she's been playin' tha' role of Sleepin' Beauty for far too long now, dont'cha think?" Hilda sucked the back of her teeth and the static shuddered from her end of the line. Betty internally agreed with that sentiment but was afraid to voice her worriment about it. When Christina's body would allow her to wake up then she would. Still, there was something slightly comical about an otherwise perfectly healthy teen-aged girl slipping into an almost week long coma due to a love confession. Comical and equally worrying.

"Yeah, it is worrying but when she wakes up . . . it'll be soon. Her body just has to let her do it on its own accord," Betty finally voiced it. Yay. She could still taste Daniel in the back of her mouth and-ew WHY in Poseidon's name was she thinking about _that_ now? Her friend was fighting to slip back into the world of the conscious and here she was thinking about how great Daniel's lips felt on hers. Oh GODS, he could kiss though! Okay . . . okay . . . no more, she internally smacked herself for that. Bad Betty. Bad!

"Alright well . . . I gotta go. Wait . . . Papi wants to talk to you real quick," Betty could hear the faint voice of her father before he took the phone from a calmer Hilda. Secretly, the younger Suarez sister missed the placating effects of her father's smooth, soft voice. Rumbling Spanish lilts, she missed that . . . dearly. He was her slice of home, her little cove of comfort, and her haven.

"How are you doing, _mija_?"

"Hanging in there, Christina is too before you ask." A thought occurred to Betty as she glanced over at the pacing hulking figure of one Mr. McKinney.

"Do you want to talk to Uncle McKinney, papi?"

"Not right now, I just want to hear about you . . . we don't get to talk that often and . . .," Betty resisted the urge to tell her dad that she'd just updated him on her latest visit with the headmaster not more than two days ago. That had went "swimmingly"; in other words, Paris Hilton and her crazy lackeys had ended up being verbally ordered to stay away from Betty and co. and vice versa. Marc, Amanda, and Daniel were only too happy to comply but the question was . . . would Marcelle be so compliant with orders? Hm, only time would tell . . .

In any case . . .

"Dad, we talked about what was up with me two days ago. Now don't skirt around the fact, I know you're dead scared about Christy too," Betty only murmured Christina's pet name when she was secretly nail-biting-scared. Right now, she was more than nail-biting-scared, she'd already bitten her nails down to the skin, right until they'd become crusted with drying blood. Smeared with burgundy. It was gross but it was a habit she was far too unconcerned about to consider addressing. Maybe later she'd try that hot sauce trick . . . when Christina woke up.

"Oh right we did, so about Daniel . . ."

Oh God, why the hell did everyone want to flog the crap out of an already dead horse! It was a kiss, it meant NOTHING! Daniel was like a brother to her. Ew. It was like she had kissed her sort-of-but-not-really brother. EEEWWWW!

"It meant nothing, Papi. We were just worked up, emotions were high, you know how it goes," God, she sucked at covering things up. Still, it really meant nothing. Betty was sure Daniel felt the exact same way about the issue. Her father's sullen sigh distorted the otherwise seamless signal and the static shivered again before settling out. Betty glanced back at a pensive who smiled ruefully down at his daughter before turning baleful oceanic blue eyes on her. Betty wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

"And by the way _mija_?"

"Yes Papi?"

Please, please, would he _please_ consider talking to his age old friend from years and years ago back in the days of ye olde college now? Like right now? Today? Betty was sick of being by her friend's bedside, worrying her bottom lip until there was nothing left to chew, wishing that she'd life up a finger or pull something miraculous . . .

This wasn't a Robin Williams movie. This wasn't _Patch Adams_ or God, it was real life! Struggling to fend off a fresh batch of salty tears that threatened to flow, Betty pressed the heel of her left palm into her cheekbones and took a deep shuddering breath. In and out, in and out, just like the creepy yoga instructor with the ice cream swirl-esque hairdo told her to do; she did just that.

Yup, oughta do the trick.

"I'll have that talk with Uncle McKinney now," thank the Lord! As soon as she uttered a quick 'bye' and reassured Christina with a comforting squeeze of the fingers that she would be back! No intention to sound like the Terminator, included, Betty decided to waltz off to a certain Meade's room.

[. . . and you will know us by the trail of . . .]

Daniel Ashton Meade was frantic, clueless, apprehensive, sweaty-palmed, a cat got his tongue, and his mirror was mocking him. Or maybe he was mocking his reflection, in either case, something was terribly wrong with this picture. First of all, his normally gelled well combed hair was all over the place. Not a single tooth from a comb had touched a tendril on his head since . . . well since the "incident" had occurred. Secondly, he'd dialed his mother's cell phone about a dozen times trying to reach her and now she'd finally phoned him back. And . . . here was the total kicker, he had NO IDEA what to say to her!

Him, the master of words, the Don Lothario of chatting up a girl, Daniel Ashton Meade was floored. Dumbfounded, awestruck, amazed. God, his brother would have a field day about this. Daniel was half tempted to check if the asshole was hiding behind one of the potted plants in the dormitory right about then . . . maybe prepping to snap a candid photo of him. Ugh. He wouldn't put past him. Finally, after giving himself a five-second prep talk because Claire Meade was liable to just call it a day and hang up, Daniel manned up and flipped open his clamshell phone.

"Hey mom."

"Daniel, how many times do I have to tell you-"

"-unless I'm dying, choking on a fishbone, about to jump off a bridge, or threatening to kill someone than I shouldn't call you, I know. But mom!"

"Yes dear," she started in that tone because she swore to God that if she couldn't have the time to sip her Scotch on the rocks in peace . . .

. . . he better have a damn good reason to have blown up her cell phone bill a good fifty dollars. A damn good reason. And a damn good reason, Daniel did cometh with. Sort of.

"It's about Betty."

"Oh," immediately his mother sunk herself down into one of the plush chaises by the roaring fireplace she'd just stirred into life. She nursed her glass of scotch in one hand, careful not to slosh the alcohol into the hungry flames, as she settled for her son's tale. Oh, this was gonna be good. He'd only talked her ear to death about this lovely, refined, sweet Betty girl from the day he'd called a truce with her. Personally, Claire was a fan, a very big fan, and when Claire was ready to pop out the metaphorical pom-poms well . . .

". . . so what happened? Did you go steady with her yet?"

"Mom . . .," Daniel groaned because he KNEW where this was going. His mom wasn't even tipsy yet and already she was concocting these grand machinations in her head. Weirdo. Drunken one at that. He still loved her though. Begrudgingly at times . . .

"Wait, don't tell me . . . you bedded her with style I hope AND with a condom!" She tacked on the last part as an afterthought like she'd just remembered to slip in the extra birth control pill with her drink. Again, drunken weirdo. Alcohol scrambled her tongue as much as it addled her brain. Claire said what she wanted when she wanted to whomever she wanted.

Daniel scoffed.

"No and no and before you say it, no I didn't even consider doing either of those things to her." Yet, his mind chanted mockingly. If there was any way to batter that conscience out of his head then Daniel would love to know right about now. He was still trying to hook himself: mind, body, and spirit, to one glorious Giselle Van Buren. Wonderful, celestial, amazing Giselle Van Buren. She'd noted his presence, his grace (or lack thereof), his charm (also lack thereof), and his tactfulness (again . . . lack thereof but who was considering that?) for months now; he only had to make her fall for it. And fall she would, oh, oh yes she woul-

"Well then why the bloody hell are you calling me for, boy?" The phone line buzzed and hiccupped as Claire paused to sip daintily at her drink.

"Because I kissed her . . .," Daniel muttered, adjusting his tie for the fifteenth billionth time. He only just now realized that Sir Sexalot aka Alex Meade was smirking ever so arrogantly at him from his position against the door-frame. Smug ass bastard.

"You what!"

"I-"

"Don't repeat that, I know what you just said but . . . wow . . . I thought she liked that Henry boy, such a sweet kid," Claire was smiling, Daniel could already _feel_ it through the phone. Weird, but he just knew he could. Alex was still smiling like a fucking idiot. Didn't he have Marcelle to screw into the mattress or something? Some mistress waiting to be conquered in his bedroom or something? He had _something_ scheduled on his timetable, the bastard.

"She does, it's just . . .," Daniel fumbled for something, anything in his fleeting mind to make some sense of the pure feelings that were coursing through his mind. He did a mental "eureka" as he settled on the perfect explanation and gave himself a pat on the back for his quick save.

". . . it was just hormones, spur of the moment, plus with Christina and all . . . emotions were roaring." Great one, Meade. The quick thinking? Pfft, that was all complimentary of his father. As much as the elder Meade loved to pursue women on the side, he was a revolutionary man when it came to logics and quick strategical thinking. All part of the plan and Daniel was getting sidetracked, sidetracked . . .

"Uh-huh," in other words Claire thought it was a load of crocodile shit. No matter, Daniel knew with complete confidence (although it was a _really _bitter pill to swallow) that Betty was meant for Henry. The kiss was a fuck up and they'd all moved past it and lived happily ever after.

"Well I hope Christina gets better anyhow, she should make a full recovery at least by the end of the week, the doctors say."

"Yeah, it was just intense shock. Apparently her body just shuts down, conscious wise whenever something happens that she can't handle. They're going to occasionally monitor her though so . . ."

" . . . hopefully they find out what's wrong," Claire mused fretfully. The bright and vivacious Scottish girl had become a potty-mouthed convivial ray of hope in the socialite's life. Claire hoped for Mr. McKinney's sake that his daughter got better. Daniel hoped for his friends' sakes (mostly Betty's) that Christina woke the hell up. 'Bout time she did anyway . . .

He also wanted to punch Henry's face in for some reason but that was another story.

[. . . the dead]

"Betty we're going to be late!" Amanda screeched, pulling her friend along in a death grip of well . . . death. They were racing down the halls, disregarding the annoyed stares and irritated huffs of "hey fucktards, watch where you're going." Frankly, they could go screw themselves into oblivion for all Amanda cared but she was NOT going to be late to Miss Wilhelmina Slater's class for . . . (Amanda inwardly shuddered here) fashion design. Hell to the NO.

Late wasn't even an option, late wasn't even a word to be considered or thought of or even implied in a statement. Early, early, early like the early bird, that's what she drilled into their heads. That evil Prada-wearing, Gucci-donning, cackling, bitchy, Beyonce twin was the stuff of Amanda's nightmares.

"Okay, we're here, calm down," Betty chuckled and Amanda glared at her as if to say, "now isn't the time to be laughing, woman!" Which it wasn't because at any mome-

Oh God. The door knob to the classroom turned and the hinges creaked and groaned in agony because the woman who was opening it was Wilhelmina Slater. Garbed in a snow-white Chanel dress, simple and fitted, Wilhelmina Slater glared them down with her frosty blue eyes. She tapped her perfectly manicured nails on her watch and twisted her lips into a sly grin. Oh God . . . oh God . . .

"Miss Suarez, Miss Tannen, you're five minutes late," the grin slipped off of the Wicked Witch of the East's face as she stepped aside in her white pumps to let them squeeze through. Narrowing her eyes at them as the two huffed breathlessly and seated their tushes at their workstations, she returned to her previous topic of interest. At the moment, the rest of the class were fearfully engrossed in a topic about seam lines, hems, and stitching. Beside Betty, Marcelle was jotting down notes on her Blackberry. For the life of her, Betty could not comprehend just WHY the bitch was allowed to text freely on her phone when everyone else who wasn't beautiful, dirty, and rich got the axe for it.

"Ugh, shoot me with a nail gun now," Amanda groaned as she thumbed through her notepad for a blank page.

"Just think, only twenty three more minutes of this torture," Betty smiled encouragingly.

"Still, time slips by way too slow in here."

"Tannen and Suarez!"

The two girls looked up in unison, mortified stares of total and complete horror mirrored in their faces, as Mrs. Slater sauntered over to their desk.

"Do you two want to be a shining example to your classmates of how _not_ to pay attention in class? Or should I save you the public humiliation and add those notice of detentions for you after class?"

"N-no miss," they stammered in unison. Wilhelmina was an evil and cruel bitch, an evil and cruel bitch indeed. Detention with her was like hell in the mind of a poor impressionable teenager, rich, poor, hungry, or dying. It didn't matter what condition you entered her classroom in, by the end of it, you would be broken down into a miserable angry son of a-

"So you won't interrupt my lessons again?" She looked like she wanted to eat Betty whole and save Amanda for dessert and NOT in a "ooh-me-so-hungry-me-love-you-long-time" sort of way either. No, she looked down right predatory and angry. Very frosty and angry. Like the tundra.

After class, luckily Amanda and Betty were left off with a warning and a very stern tirade about the importance of not being tardy. Still, even when they tried to explain Christina's condition, their teacher turned a cold metaphorical eye on the whole issue and pretended to not care. Or maybe because, you know, she was a bitch she just really _didn't_ care. Like, at all. Yeah, that made more plausible sense.

Amanda waved to Betty, stating that she had to meet Aidan, and yes as in Aidan Owens-Cross, the step-relative of Connor Owens. betty kept forgetting just how the hell the two were related, like she cared anyway. At any point, as she was walking back to the dormitory she happened to overhear the harpy, Marcelle ranting on the phone in a very nasal irritating voice. It sounded like she was talking to one of her lackeys but Betty couldn't be certain, all she knew was that whatever she was raving about had everything to do with Henry. And her, Betty Suarez, meek and mild, seemingly unaware.

"-I know . . . ," a pregnant pause filled the air and Marcelle took the time to file her nails with her nail filing thing. Betty could care less about what that specific grooming instrument was called, Marcelle was saying something gravely important at the moment. Pressing her back against the wall to Mrs. Slater's classroom, Betty pursed her lips and chanced a glance at an irate Marcelle puckering her lips in annoyance at her Blackberry.

" . . .well fucking make _sure _that Mac Pharlain KEEPS Betty and Henry together during his partner assignments," Marcelle hissed venomously. Betty couldn't say that she hadn't seen it coming but . . . damn . . . wow . . .

". . . you know why. My dad made a fucking contract, I need to own at least half of that Meade empire. This is business, purely fucking business, Julia. You're either my compadre, my partner in crime, or not. Get it fucking done. I don't care what the risk is for you, screw that. Well be discreet about it for God's sakes! You're discreet about holding your liquor and keeping your latest fuck buddy's condoms hidden," a pause, ". . . whatever! Get it done!"

And then the phone was shut off with an angry jab of a well manicured nail. Betty let out the breath she was holding in one long painful exhale and waited for Marcelle to exit the hallway from the opposite direction. Then . . . she let it all out.

[end chapter]

Author's Notes: So . . . you know the drill: hate it? Love it? Too short? Too long? Send me a reply, folks. Hope you enjoyed it.

- TBP


	11. Episode Ten, Part One

**How to Survive Immaculate Conceptional Academy: Tales of a Misfit Teen**

DISCLAIMER: Me no habla espanol, but more importantly, I don't own any one in this story, save for the Van Burens and Marcelle's posse.

Author's Notes: I came back from a cruise and now I'm in college, yay! The cruise was awesome, ask me all about it in the reviews, my little loves and college has been kicking my ass for the past couple of months. I'll try to respond to your messages and whatnot because you know, active responses from authors breed happiness in reviewers and warm, fuzzy feelings of self-importance . . . or something. The important thing is that I'm ALIVE!

P.S. There's going to be three parts to episode ten, yep, yep, yep. So if it seems like they end abruptly, it's for a reaaaason. Review as always, loves.

Episode Ten: She Loves the Way You Lie Pt. 1

To say that Elisabeth "Betty" Rosalind Suarez was anxious enough to possibly piss on herself was an understatement. She kept biting her lips, staring at the double doors with all of the barely restrained tenacity of a sixteen year old girl that she could muster, willing her bladder to "cease and desist". Cease it would not and it would be damned if it would desist, it was full, and her body was urging her that she had to go, gotta go, gotta go right now. She was sure that wherever God was, he was having an absolutely riotous time laughing at her expense.

Sadistic deities be damned, of all the times to be . . . loose . . .

". . . and so it's imperative that you at least consider the ramifications that you could invariably face, when you _DO_ commit these acts. Confronting someone with the intention to be violent or aggressive in a verbal manner is certainly not okay," Lucien threaded his bony tree-like fingers together and rested his bearded chin on them. He peered expectantly at the six or so other teenagers seated around his desk. The guards had only come in to gently place some extra leather-backed chairs for more seating and then they left as quietly as they came. Betty felt like she was being interrogated by the Don of an Italian mafia . . . a very Irish, bearded, and ancient Don of an Italian mafia. Still, it was freaking terrifying and more than a little old.

"Right, so like Mister Chamberlain or whatever," Julia started, smacking on a piece of gum with a ferociousness Betty only previously thought was reserved for sex-happy ex boyfriends, ". . . can I like go now? I'm due for a manicure appointment in like twenty minutes."

"Chancellor," the headmaster chimed in with an air of incredulity because seriously he only threw his name around every couple of days during important announcements he made via intercom. How the hell did she . . . never mind. Furrowing his brow at her, he resisted the urge to just shoo her away with a flick of his hand and instead appeased her with a response.

"No, you may not go," and that was that. A flabbergasted Julia began to fret and pout and whine like a five year old that had just went through their first excruciating root canal. Except there were no pliers being held to her incisors, though Christina would probably gladly volunteer to be the one to do those honors.

Betty's stomach did flip flops thinking back to the powdery white cheeks of her friend, all the way back to the beeping heart monitor, and the tubes extending out of her nose and slipped rather none too comfortably between her lips. Christina, her friend Christina, she would get better and wake up, just like Aurora from _Sleeping Beauty_. Maybe all it would take would be a chaste kiss from the self proclaimed "love of her life" currently examining the patina of the wood from Lucien's desk.

Maybe . . .

". . . so freaking unfair!" Julia grumbled.

"Ugh, my nail just broke!" Amanda whined and sucking on her teeth inaudibly as she clucked her tongue at the chipped hot pink nail in question. Daniel was engrossed in trying not to bolt out of the room and raid Beck's personal alcoholic cabinetry. Judging by the amount of times Betty had seen him chew his lips it must have been very hard for him. Daniel was on edge, Daniel was thinking about the fact that his lips had just collided with Betty's and his tongue had almost won at a 2-1 game of tonsil hockey with her. He was really, really quite neurotic, threading his fingers together and twiddling his thumbs like some nervous sixty something year old priest recently convicted of pedophilia. Seriously . . . he was like a guilty child that had snatched one too many cookies from the cookie jar.

And there was Leah and Julia and the rest of Marcelle's ever faithful, ever vigilant (yeah right, like bumbling idiotic preppy princesses, more like bitches really, could be _vigilant_) compadres silently resting on their laurels. They were sent out with a strict warning and the snippets of barely retained tirades rattling in their hollow skulls. Betty clutched her purse, twisting the hand straps this way and that feverishly because honestly, she'd never meant for her whole world to blow up like this. For Pete's sake, give her the damn warning and let her be.

". . . and that's all. Miss Suarez, Mister Meade, and company . . . I would hate to have to see your faces in my office again due to negligent behavior. Please, don't make this a repeated offense. You're well aware of the ramifications. Good day," with a practiced air of forced respectfulness and deliberate placidity, Mr. Chancellor bid them leave with an inclination of his outstretched hand. Get the hell out of my office basically, but just in a much more prim way.

Much. More. Prim.

By the time Betty had gotten out of there, it was like a proverbial weight had been pried off of her back—like the clinches of what had transpired finally filtered out of her head. And there was Daniel. Deciding to direct her attention towards Marc and Amanda because her brain couldn't handle the addled frequencies of her love high (she DIDN'T freaking LOVE Daniel, for Jesus and Elvis Presley's SAAAAAKE!) at the moment, Betty pivoted on her heel and followed them past the archways. Daniel stood there and she didn't so much as spare a second glance towards him. Tomorrow was for confrontations, today she had to finish up her obligations.

"Well, that went well, the old guy didn't take my dick off," Marc sighed dramatically, chewing on his bottom lip.

"Oh please, Mister Chancellor is only as intimidating as you make him out to be. He has the intimidation factor of a two year old, practically harmless."

"So, he's a drooling, destructive, and quick-mouthed walking mass of unpredictability, how reassuring." Betty let herself chuckle at Marc and Amanda's refreshing wit. Truthfully though, she couldn't help but feel that she had been a bit of a bitch by leaving Daniel without so much as an explanation. He deserved at least to know that yes, hello she was going through typical female ups and downs, highs and lows, not so sures and damn straights . . . phases of that nature. Typical but not insurmountable, not without him at least. She needed him. Damn, she really needed him. Besides she had planted her lips on his and he had planted it on hers. He was the sole witness and the initiator, he was the star of this Act.

"Guys, hold on . . ." Betty momentarily forgot what her voice even sounded like. Scary.

"Where did Daniel go?" Marc asked in an abrupt spark of sobriety.

"Yeah, we just bailed out on him. He's like a sick wittle puppy, we can't leave him all alone like that," Amanda mock crooned, pouting like some lovesick child. Betty resisted the urge to either gag or laugh, whichever would involuntarily tumble out of her mouth first. She held it back.

Instead it was . . . "I'll go get him, hold tight." And they did or so she assumed, Betty didn't check. She ran through the archways, trying to forget the scent of the cologne he'd been wearing, trying not to stick him into a 'My really, really sexy and hot best friend' label, no matter how true that statement was. She was struggling for breath, partially because Miss Suarez was no athlete, she didn't spend her days jogging up and down the school corridors just to "catch up on practice" and partially because she was asthmatic. Oh you didn't know? Well, now dear reader you've become privy to that little tidbit of info.

As it stood, Betty did find Daniel staring rather intently at a particularly interesting spot on the floor, like he was contemplating the meaning of the universe or something. She decided to let the silence drag on for however long it needed to and when the pregnant pause had hung in the air like a badly placed comma or question mark, Betty finally resigned herself to speaking. Daniel's bloodshot eyes were rimmed with dark circles, an obvious sign of sleep deprivation; whether forced or not Betty was too hesitant to ask. He was still staring at the floorboards as if the grain of the wood had suddenly generated a soul and become a living, breathing thing with emotions, like it would leap up at him at any millisecond and . . .

"Daniel . . . we need to talk."

"I know."

"We need to talk about . . ."

". . . what happened yesterday, I know Betty, I know."

Lord have mercy they had officially begun to complete each other's wedding vows.

His impossibly blue eyes finally looked up into hers: algid like the early permafrost on tree barks, comparable to the fresh blueness of a sunny morning sky, like the crystalline blue of an ocean, deep, and seemingly without depth. The blueness of his eyes went on forever in mesmerizing and confounding circles, changing in hue and sometimes in shade, ringed in variations of greys or lighter blues or greens or sometimes even a half ring of gold. Today there were striations of flinty grey like smoldering charcoal had been pressed into his irises, Betty started to wonder when she'd taken the time to notice how often his eyes changed color. Today, she realized with a start, they were blue-green like the glimmering Caribbean Sea.

"So . . ."

"When Christina wakes up we'll talk about it. I think we need time to uh . . . to process it. To let it really seep in, ya know?"

Our resident heroine of this story resisted the urge to chuck one of her wedge sandals at his head in ire; instead she settled down next to him on one of the vacant benches she'd spied with her little eye. The two sat in an unsettling silence, not at all companionable, but rather like separate entities; as if they were finally aware of their individualistic tendencies for the first time in months. What Betty recognized was that Daniel, no matter what, had his heart and mind on Giselle. What Daniel realized and this fact, since it was inveterate, fucking frustrated him, was that Betty's heart and mind belonged to Henry Grubdick. God, he hated that nerdy Harry Potter look-a-like, he was so undeserving of Betty's sweetness, her placid aplomb, her divine countenance, it was far too much for our drunkard of a hero.

He needed booze and he needed it right fucking now-well right after he was through with this whole spiel with Betty.

"Guys . . .?" A questioning call reached them from down the hallway. Directly to their right were the shadowed figures, Amanda and Marc. Betty held up her hand, half-smiled apologetically 'cause really making them wait was like committing arson. Almost.

"Well, we can't wait sweets, we gotta hop to it, project-wise. We're presenting tomorrow."

And this was when our sweet, sweet Betty, our feisty little Latina version of Alice, blanched and her eyes widened. Dear gods, the project! Readjusting the straps on her trusty wedge sandals, Betty gave Daniel a quick peck on the cheek and took off down the hall. She was a speed demon, being closely followed by a livid Amanda who was barely breathing out a single word, poor thing. Well, no not really, Amanda was a scary skinny chick, she could beat a bitch with a Prada heel when she was angry enough; and right now . . .? Well at this specific moment in time you see, Amanda was irate enough to bludgeon both Giselle (she didn't give a flying pig's ass _how_ nice that girl was, and she _was _admittedly a billion times nicer than her younger sister) and Marcelle with one of her kitten heels. She hated kitten heels and she also hated Marcelle so it worked. Kill two birds with one stone.

"Why . . . didn't you . . . tell Daniel . . . what you saw . . . back there, Betty?" Amanda managed to huff out in between labored breaths of air. She blew a few strands of sunflower-blond hair out of her bright eyes and looked Betty squarely in the eyes. Betty was a chicken, a coward, a craven young girl known for narrowly avoiding mishaps unless they were ones relating to fashion; in which case she ignored her wardrobe malfunctions and kept marching to the drum of her own beat. She didn't tell Daniel what she should've and should not have told him because it would ruin everything, because he would ruin everything, because he would challenge both his father and Giselle's . . . because . . . because . . .

"I don't know, Amanda. Life's crazy and-and it just wasn't the right time."

"Wasn't the right time? Betty!" Amanda started barely noting that Marc had waved to them and retreated back to his room, crestfallen that he hadn't heard anything (actually, none of them had) about Christina's condition.

"Amanda," Betty rounded on Amanda. She was seriously sick of having to try and explain the crazy method of why she did exactly what she did. Half of the time Betty wasn't sure why she opted to sweep problems like Daniel's under the rug. Real friends tugged these issues out, brushed the dust off of them, and proceeded to make said issues vanish into thin air. Betty's method? Was to drive everyone simultaneously crazy by keeping these issues locked in a closet like skeletal bones, never to be unearthed again, or so she hoped . . .

So she hoped . . .

"Well if you won't tell him then I will!" And then Amanda was off, spider silk-thin hair trailing behind her like a gossamer curtain of flax-seed. Betty watched her with her mouth agape, the only thing that shook her back into the real world was the sound of her phone vibrating against the curve of her hip.

She'd gotten two text messages. One read: _From Daniel. 10:03 pm. we need to talk tomorrow. asap. no questions asked. _The second one read: _From Henry. 6:22 pm. Betty? Hey, it's Henry, I was wondering if you could e-mail me what you wrote so far for your project; we need to present it soon. Thanks. :) _

Betty inwardly squealed as soon as she got back to her dorm. Amanda had promptly dropped off her belongings and taken off, presumably to go have that talk with Daniel. The one that Betty was _supposed_ to truthfully be giving him. Yes, Betty did feel sick to her stomach the whole entire time she'd worked on her project. She'd went through about three cups of coffee and had made her way to the kitchens for a little "m idnight snack" also known as her now routine slice of tiramisu cake. Alex, the cook said absolutely nothing when he'd seen her plop down on one of the stools, half dead from pure exhaustion. Betty knew that she looked like shit, Hilda could practically hear the yawn behind each of her words when they conversed on the phone, and her Papi had commented on how absolutely defeated she sounded.

Then it happened . . .

"Betty, oh my fucking god, get your ass up!"

Right after she'd successfully e-mailed Henry her project and sent him a text back, telling him that she was finally done with her draft for their mammoth of a project. She'd reveled in her accomplishments for a good five minutes and then had set about prepping for bed when . . .

"Bets, you won't believe what happened, come on out!" One, Daniel never almost _never _called her by that godawful pet name however she was willing to make an exception given this fact. This would be the first and last time he'd ever use that crappy piece of shit known as a nickname around her, she fumed. She shoved her feet into her bunny ear slippers and shuffled out of the room, a pink head towel with pineapples having been haphazardly wrapped around her head, and practically glared at the three people standing in front of her room in question.

Marc smiled ruefully at her appearance, ". . . aw my little fashion disaster of a hot tamale, you look fucking terrible. But guess what?"

What? Had the US government finally grown some balls and learned to use their brains? Had hamsters finally fulfilled her horrific nightmare and successfully managed to overtake the world? Yes, sleep deprivation made Betty's dreams only weirder and possibly made Amanda question her best friend's sanity . . . not that Betty blamed her for doing so? Or . . . was it about Christina? As Betty's eyes flitted over to the shocked, utterly relieved faces of her haggard young friends, the reason that they had practically beaten her poor door down dawned on her. That realization became more apparent as Marc clutched her hand and squeezed it reassuringly although she gazed at them questioningly as he led her out of the room. And just where was he taking her without her consent? At fucking 10:30-something at night? Why didn't they just tell her? Seriously . . . Betty was starting to get freaked out by the numbing silence, she wanted to scream, holler, shake Daniel until his pretty shiny veneers rattled in his mouth. She wanted to . . . she wanted to know if . . . if . . .

And then they were there in front of the infirmary where Lucius stood, his wrinkled hands as old and as weather as Time itself, stood. He peered at the groggy young girl sitting up, albeit weakly, in her bed staring curiously at the newcomers that had quietly entered her side of the room. The starch white curtains were drawn back and the kindly Southern nurse beamed at the newly roused patient's friends with a silent urging.

"Go on, she's been callin' for ya'll to come see her. Normally we wouldn't open the infirmary this late but since she's awake, we might as well, even if it is for a few minutes or so, sweety."

"Thank you." Betty and Amanda tearfully clutched at the motherly nurse's hands and took turns hugging her. If it weren't for her and the rest of the staff, there was no telling what could have happened to Christina.

"Hi Tina!" Amanda hollered, almost frightening the normally sassy mouthed Scottish girl who just managed to smile tiredly at her.

"Hey there Amanda," she coughed heavily into her arm, moving the pale slim appendage away, examining it as if it were some foreign limb to her; as if it wasn't really _her _arm. Betty slipped away for a while to speak to the nurse while Daniel, Marc, and Amanda surrounded Christina marveling over her remarkable recovery.

"Did you guys find out what exactly caused it?

"Well we'd sent her out to the hospital and well it's classified, sweety. I'm afraid I can't disclose that information to you but I will say . . . she can't nurse a beer bottle for a good while."

Alcohol poisoning. Betty turned pale, nodded, and weakly muttered a thank you as she turned back to a smiling, laughing, and generally convivial Christina. Christina that had drunken herself to death almost, Christina that had visibly worried and shaken up a whole host of concerned family members, close friends, and essentially a new love interest. Christina that had fallen into a three-week coma. Christina . . . . a best friend, a soul mate, a self professed twin of Amanda and fraternal Scottish twin of Betty. Christina.

"Betty! Oi girlie, come 'ere, gimme a hug, I'm not made 'a glass, ya know."

So Betty complied and hugged Christina as tightly as possible, breathing in the smell of ointments; and carefully avoiding the tug of ventilation and incubation tubes and keeping a close eye on her heart monitors and metabolic rates, as if watching the numbers and waves would keep her sane.

All Betty knew was that she was more than glad to have Christina back.


End file.
